
«^ 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 




UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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POEMS 



BY 



MARY HUNT McCALEB 



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G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK : 27 & 29 WEST 23D STREET 
LONDON : 25 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN 

1884 






COPYRIGHT BY 

MARY HUNT McCALEB 



DEDICATION 



TO 

THE BEST AND DEAREST FRIEND I HAVE ON EARTH 

MY HUSBAND 

HON. T. L. ODOM 

OF FORT CHADBOURNE, RUNNELS COUNTY, TEXAS 

WITH THE DEEPEST AFFECTION OF HIS DEVOTED WIFE 

THE AUTHOR 



lU 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Broken Lens . . . . . . . i 

Out in the World 3 

To My Mother 6 

My Husband's Birthday , 9 

Over the River ........ 11 

Little Relics 13 

The Better Part 15 

** Sic Transit " ........ 17 

To My Mother 21 

Carrier's Address of the Vicksburg Business Chronicle, 

January I, 1876 26 

Maggie to Frank ....... 30 

Kate Nailer ........ 32 

Tribute to the Hon. Jacob S. Terger .... 34 

Again .,.,....,. 36 

Little Maggie ......... 38 

Plighted 41 

My Baby's Shoe 43 

Nevermore . 45 

Little Children , .47 

To My Husband 50 

Those Eyes 53 

To 56 

The Little Boy I Lost 58 

The Head that Sheltered Mine 63 

Wedded to Another 66 

V 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



Our Starlit Hour 

Falling Leaves . 

Disappointed 

A Broken Hope . 

Not One to Spare 

Remembrance 

Across the Way , 

Life's Changes . 

Only a Memory Now 

At Rest 

Experience . 

Just So ! 

My Pictures 

Only a Dream 

A Noonday Dream 

Broken at Last , 

Lines , 

A Wife's Valentine 

To Laura Durden 

Impromptu by the Sea 

Never Again 

General Hood's Last Charge 

Dead Faces 

Treasured Tokens 

These Little Ones 

The Bishop's Welcome 

Acrostic 

Carrier's Address 

To Mollie Brown 

Introspection 

The Broken Harp 

To . 

A Prayer 
Impromptu to 



CONTENTS. Vll 

PAGB 

Little Josie 162 

To My Husband 164 

Appeal to President Johnson in Behalf of Jefferson 

Da/is 166 

Acrostic 169 

Waitirg 170 

A Withered Flower 173 

My Baby's Godmother 176 

The Pic.ure on the Wall . . . . . .178 

A Jessamine Flower 180 

To 182 

At Twilight 185 

The Silent House ....... 188 

Lines 191 

Buried at Sea 193 

A Wife's Appeal . 197 

To Little Edwill's Mamma 199 

Lines, Written in an Album . . . . , 20i 

To My Little Namesake, May Dee Collier . . . 202 

My Mother 206 

To My Father 207 

The Place of Rest 210 

To D. M 214 

To My Husband 216 

To Mother 219 

Baptism in the Sea 221 

To Cora Stewart, of Galveston 225 

A Fragment ........ 227 

After Long Years . 229 

Distrusted 233 

My Galveston Home 235 

To Colonel T. L. Odom 240 

Colonel Harper P. Hunt 243 

In Memory . 248 



VIU CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

In Memoriam ........ 2S3 

In Memoriam ........ ^56 

Baby is Dead 259 

Tribute to the Memory of the Very Rev. Father L. C. 

M. Chambodnt 261 

Our Dead President . . . . . . . 266 

My Birthday 269 

Life 274 

Youth Renewed . 278 

The Little Brown Curl 281 

Faith, Hope, and Love ...... 284 

Bridal Offering 286 

A Little Ray Over the Window . . . . . 289 

Widowed ..'...,... 292 

Two Loves 296 



THE BROKEN LENS. 



Oh ! never again, my darling, 

Never for you and me, 
Will ring the chime of the sweet spring-time. 

Of life as it used to be. 

We all must change, my darling 

Must pass through shadow and shine, 

Must drain our cup as it sparkles up, 
The lees with the rich, red wine. 

The river of life, my darling, 

Flows evenly from its source. 
But gathers strength, with its rushing length. 

To meet the Ocean's force. 

That great " wide sea," my darling. 

That spreads from sky to sky, 
The boundless blue of the false and the tme, 

The fetterless By-and-by. 



THE BROKEN LENS. 

Oh ! the world is fair, my darling, 

Too fair to the eyes of youth ; 
We look through a lens, at its units and tens, 

And count them as millions of truth. 

Time shivers the glass, my darling, 

And shatters our castle towers ; 
The millions and tens go down with the lens, 

And only the units are ours. 

Only the units, my darling. 

We hold with a sense of pain. 
And we vainly sigh, as the years go by, 

To look through the lens again. 



OUT IN THE WORLD. 



Out in the pitiless falling rain, — 

Out in the chill November weather — 
We wander forth to earn our bread, 

My only child and I together ; 
A leaden sky is overhead ; 

Thick, shaggy clouds of dismal gray, 
Hang over us as though despair 

Would shroud the light of hope away. 

The engine shrieks as though in pain, 

Then, panting, stops as if for breath ; 
The cars rush madly on again. 

As though they fled from sin and death. 
I shiver in the murky air. 

Lift my wet eyes and glance around ; 
In all the crowd of faces there 

No friend's familiar look is found. 

Alone in my heart-breaking woe, 
Bereft of all the joy I Ve known ; 
3 



OUT IN THE WORLD. 

Just as hot tears begin to flow, 
Soft loving fingers clasp my own. 

I feel sweet kisses on my cheek, 
Two loving arms around me twine ; 

Two great, brown eyes that almost speak, 
Look up in childish trust to mine. 

Thank God ! I have one blessing yet — 

One rose upon my tree of joy — 
One single star that has not set 

Amid the clouds — my darling boy — 
My precious only child — the last 

Of four sweet children that I had — 
One living baby left to cheer. 

Three little graves to make me sad. 

Dear little Fannie went before 

Her baby lips had drawn a breath ; 
And Frank was scarcely eight months old 

When his blue eyes were closed in death 
The next — the purest of my pearls, — 

With bright blue eyes, and shining hair 
That clustered in such sunny curls 

About her brow so smooth and fair, — 



OUT IN THE WORLD. 

My little Maggie, whose sweet eyes 

Looked into mine for two brief years, 
Died, and my very heart turned cold. 

And froze the fountain of my tears. 
I could not weep, tho' others knelt 

Beside my child in sobbing woe ; 
The deepest grief I ever felt 

Was when my tears refused to flow. 

My little ones have passed away — 

My home, and fortune, too, have gone^ 
And on this cheerless wintry day 

I wander in the world alone. 
Out in the pitiless falling rain — 

Out in the chill November weather — 
We wander forth to earn our bread, 

My only child and I together. 



TO MY MOTHER. 



Sweet mother, the spirit of sorrowful song 

Steals over my being to-night ; 
It binds me with fetters so sweet and so strong, 
My very soul faints as old memories throng, 

And tinge all the past with their light. 

I open my heart to the breezes that play 
Soft notes on the strings of my lyre — 
Pale spectres arise of a happier day. 
Of youth and its pleasures all drifted away ; 
Like ashes bereft of their fire. 

The bright happy home of my earlier years, 

The loved and the loving ones there — ■ 
How vividly each worshipped image appears, 
Though seen thro' the mist of my gathering tears, 
To me they are wondrously fair. 

And one — oh, my mother ! one dearer than all. 
One face of all faces I see, 
6 



TO MY MOTHER. J 

Whose smile we can never, no never recall — 
'T is lying so still 'neath the white silken pall — 
Is more than all others to me. 

In the same cherished home where you dwelt as his 
bride, 

Where your little ones clung to your breast, 
You lovingly walked through the years at his side, 
And wept all your heart-broken grief when he died, 

And they laid him away to his rest. 

The years have been seven and thirty to-day, 
Dear mother, since first you were wed ; 

Your bright cheek has faded, your hair has grown 
gray, 

While his is like snow on his forehead of clay, 
As he lies in the midst of the dead. 

O mother, how well I remember this day 

Last year, and how happy we were. 
As we sat at your table so merry and gay. 
And father would count us — he said *t was his 
way — 

To be sure that the last one was there ! 



8 TO MY MOTHER. 

But now, far away from the place of my birth, 

I sit in my sorrow and weep ; 
Death's shadow is clinging about the old hearth. 
And long summer grass rustles over the earth 

Where my father is resting asleep. 

When Faith's holy crown shone upon his white 
hair. 

As through the dark valley he trod, 
He lifted his soul in this passionate prayer : 
'^ Let none — oh ! not one of them be missing there 

When I count them before Thee, O God/' 



MY HUSBAND'S BIRTHDAY. 



The years are casting shadows, 

All across our quiet way, 
And their dust is thickly gathered 

Upon both our hearts to-day. 
Their silver feet are treading, 

Through your whiskers and your hair ; 
I can see their snowy signals. 

Telling me they have been there. 

Another year, my darling, 

You have garnered in to-day 
Ripe for the eternal harvest, 

As we tread our homeward way. 
And the gleams of golden sunlight. 

That amid the shadows rest, 
Fall aslant above us now, dear, 

For our sun is in the west. 

We have walked life's path together, 
Through many circling years, 
9 



MY HUSBAND S BIRTHDAY. 

Bearing one another's burdens, 

Soothing one another's fears. 
Through the light and through the darkness 

That was cast upon our way — 
Watched the shadows turn to sunshine, 

And the sunshine turn to gray. 

We have borne the heated burden 

Of our life's warm summer noon. 
And the deeper glow of twilight 

Will be gathered o'er us soon. 
And the night of death in blackness, 

^^ Like a mantle over all," 
Shrouding earthly joys and sorrows 

In one great immortal pall. 

When the Angel shall arouse us 

From our last unbroken sleep. 
And shall call the silent dwellers 

From the earth and from the deep, 
May we stand again together 

In that golden-tinted land. 
Always close beside each other. 

Walking ever hand in hand. 



OVER THE RIVER. 



Over the river, the cold dark river, 
Whose current is strong and deep, 

The sails of life are furled forever, 
And its mariners sink to sleep. 

Over the river, the starless river. 

We see our idols glide ; 
And stretch our arms in vain endeavor, 

They drift to the other side. 

Over the river, the voiceless river, 

That syllables no refrain. 
The loved ones we have lost forever, 

Will never return again. 

Over the river, the deep still river. 

Our life's last hopes shall set. 
And dreams shall die that never, no never, 

Could earth-bound souls forget. 

II 



12 OVER THE RIVER. 

Over the river, the waveless river, 

Where never a ripple is cast, 
Where darkness reigns and no lights quiver, 

We all must cross at last. 

Over the river, the shaded river, 
Where wait our loved and lost, 

We 11 find our treasures safe whenever 
Our weary souls have crossed. 

Over the river, the sweet, sweet river, 

We will lay our crosses down. 
To wear on sinless brows forever 

The Saviour's promised crown. 



LITTLE RELICS. 



Only a baby's picture, 

With dimpled shoulders bare ; 
Large blue eyes softly beaming, 

And rings of golden hair. 

Only a faded relic. 

All wrinkled, soiled, and torn ; 
'T is but a tiny stocking 

My little girl had worn. 

Only a knot of ribbon. 

More precious far than pearls ; 
It slipped, just as you see it. 

One evening from her curls. 

Only her broken playthings, — 
Little dishes and her doll, 

Her pretty cups of silver, — 
You see I keep them all. 
13 



14 LITTLE RELICS. 

Only a little slipper 

That my pretty darling wore 

The first time that she tottered 
Across the chamber floor. 

Why do I keep and love them, 
When so many years have fled ? 

Don't you know ? They were my baby's, 
And the little one is dead. 



THE BETTER PART. 



We hold the fame of our Southern dead 

As a precious, sacred trust ; 
And we step with a slower, lighter tread, 

When we pass their sleeping dust. 

Their blood-stained memories enfold 
Our mourning hearts to-day ; 

And we pile the marble high and cold 
Above their pulseless clay. 

A hundred golden records shine, 
To tell the dead men's fame ; 

While laurel leaflets closely twine 
Around each sculptured name. 

Our patriotic tear-drops fall 
Upon their names we carve — 

The sire sleeps in his marble hall 
The while his children starve. 
15 



1 6 THE BETTER PART. 

His little ones may cry for bread, 
His hapless widow freeze — 

Our sympathies are with the dead, 
But not with such as these. 

We pass them in the busy street, 
Nor heed their pleading moans ; 

Their hearts may bleed beneath our feet- 
We honor dead men's bones. 

We give our tears, we heap our gold, 
Above their crumbling dust ; 

Forgetting that we still may hold 
A higher, purer trust. 

Forgetting that a loaf of bread 

Fed to a soldier's child, 
Is worth more to those heroes dead 

Than all the stones we have piled. 



"SIC TRANSIT." 



'T is almost twenty years, John, 

Since you stood by my side. 
And held my trembling hand in yours, 

Your newly-plighted bride. 
You have forgotten it, perhaps, — • 

I never can forget ; 
Each word you whispered to me then 

Thrills through my spirit yet. 

Your step upon the rustic porch, 

That evening when you came ; 
The sudden red that to my cheeks 

Flashed upward like a flame ; 
The glad light beaming in your eye 

When first it met my own ; 
The fervent clasp you gave my hand ; 

Your low and tender tone. — 
17 



1 8 **SIC TRANSIT." 

It all comes back to me to-night, 

With deep, heart-thrilling power, 
Until I seem to live again 

That soul-enchanting hour. 
The stars are shining just the same. 

The sky is still as blue ; 
Ah ! John, the change is not in them ; 

It rests on me and you. 

It matters not to either now 

What could or might have been, 
Since all these years, like drifting snow, 

Lie pale and cold between. 
I only know that once we loved. 

And that we loved in vain — 
That deep, sweet pulse of happiness 

Will never throb again. 

That evening — eighteen years ago — 

Do you remember still ? 
Or have you quite forgotten, John, 

The old house on the hill ; 
The sofa by the folding-door. 

The great arm-chair so near. 
Where on that fragrant summer night, 

You said I was so dear ? 



19 



I sat and listened silently, 

As though I never heard, 
While you were pleading earnestly 

For just one little word. 
I felt the blood my forehead tinge, 

And mantle in my cheek ; 
You must have seen I loved you, John, 

Although I could not speak. 

You pulled to pieces as you talked 

A rose that I had worn. 
And the lace upon my handkerchief 

I know was sadly torn. 
You took my hand in yours, John, 

And pressed it with a sigh ; 
I raised my head an instant then. 

And met your deep blue eye. 

That glance — what may one look reveal, 

Of passion or regret — 
I see it still, and know that you 

Can never quite forget. 
Ah, well, that rosy-tinted hour 

Passed o'er us like a dream ; 
Our lives are never half so bright, 

As in our youth they seem. 



20 SIC TRANSIT. 

A few bright, golden months, and then 

The parting hour came ; 
Our daily paths are far apart, 

Yet life is just the same. 
The stars shine just as clear to-night, 

The sky is still as blue, 
As when in youth the hours sped 

So happily with you. 

My children cling about me now. 

Yours climb upon your knee ; 
The harp of life has changed its tone. 

Not hushed its minstrelsy. 
I smile when thinking how you praised 

My midnight eyes and hair — 
Your wife has eyes of clearest blue. 

And tresses bright and fair. 

Our youth, with all its memories. 

Is passing fast away ; 
Yet some old dreams will linger, John, 

About our hearts to-day. 
In every life some memory 

Retains its magic powers, 
That half-awakened thing around 

Our resurrected hours. 



TO MY MOTHER. 



Dear Mother, I am thinking, as the twilight gathers 

Of friends who knew and petted me in childhood's 

happy day, 
Of pleasures dead and buried, of sunny hopes that 

smiled 
Beyond the bright horizon when I was but a child. 
The great book of the by-gone lies open in my hand ; 
And, as I turn its pages, I seem again to stand 
Beside you, darling Mother, scarcely higher than 

your knee. 
Looking at your busy fingers making something 

nice for me. 
I can see my little brother, too, the one that 's gone 

before. 
With all his pretty playthings at your feet upon the 

floor ; 
How he tossed them all behind him when he tired 

of his play, 

21 



22 TO MY MOTHER. 

And crowed for you to take him in his pretty baby 

way. 
Then you put aside your sewing, rocked your little 

one to rest, 
While I kissed his chubby fingers as they lay upon 

your breast. 
Many years beneath the violets his sunny head has 

lain, 
I can never see his darling, little dimpled hand 

again. 
Beside my older brother, who had been the first to 

go, . 

They laid your precious " Tommy " gently, ten- 
derly, and low. 

I remember, too, the letter saying grandmamma 
had died — 

And father read it to you sitting on the steps, and 
cried. 

She had left a little daughter, eight years old the 
letter said. 

And they wanted you to have her, now that grand- 
mamma was dead. 

She came— you called her " Betty," as you kissed 
her childish brow, 

And told me I must love her as an older sister 
now ; 



TO MY MOTHER. 23 

When we grew and played together through many 

varied years — 
Some hours bright and golden, some embalmed in 

precious tears. 
Ah ! those visions of my childhood, how they 

crowd about me now, 
As memory's hand is sweeping back the shadow 

from my brow ! 
I love to think upon them, love the dreamy light 

they cast 
About the silent chambers of the unforgotten past, 
I cannot tell you. Mother, all the burning thoughts 

that come 
And fill my heart, when thinking of my childhood's 

happy home. 
The friends that now are scattered, who in youth 

were gathered there. 
One by one they glide before me, like sweet spirits 

in the air ; 
They come around me lovingly, and bear my spirit 

back 
So gently and so tenderly along the olden track. 
They carry me, dear Mother, to the old house on 

the hill. 
With its quaint old-fashioned parlor — how well I 

love it 3till ! 



24 TO MY MOTHER. 

I see again in memory the bright and happy 
throng 

Around the old piano, joining in the evening song. 

There Mary sung the sweetest, and woke the deep- 
est thrill 

Of all the youthful voices that floated o'er the hill. 

Poor ^^ Mary," how we loved her, with her bright 
and laughing ways ; 

Her spirit steals upon me now, a *^ light of other 
days," 

But trouble came upon her from the day she was a 
bride. 

Though she never, never murmured ; of her silent 
grief she died. 

And he who won her from us sleeps in death beside 
her now — 

Spring flowers bright are blossoming above his icy 
brow. 

Two little orphan children, playing 'round the cot- 
tage door. 

Recall their mother's childhood from the happy 
days of yore. 

My father's younger brother, scarcely older than 
the rest. 

Is wedded to the playmate that I always loved the 
best. 



TO MY MOTHER. 25 

" Betty " married and is widowed, she is childless 

and alone — 
Her path was strewn with roses that are faded now 

and gone. 
Ah ! life is full of changes, full of partings and of 

tears, 
While time is slowly filling up the graves of early 

years. 
Our happy band is broken, we are scattered far and 

wide. 
For time has borne us onward with its ever-rushing 

tide. 
I, too, have wandered, mother, from the place I 

loved so well. 
To wear another name, and in another's home to 

dwell. 
I know he loves me dearly, and my heart is full of 

joy 
When I gaze upon my husband, and my laughing 

baby boy. 
Life's sweetest draught I 've tasted when the cup 

was running o'er. 
But I often wish, dear Mother, I could be a child 

once more. 



CARRIER'S ADDRESS OF THE VICKS- 

BURG BUSINESS CHRONICLE, 

JANUARY I, 1876* 



The Western sun behind the hills 

Sank on his bed of gold ; 
The wind wailed from the Eastward, 

With a sobbing drear and cold. 
The misty veil of shadows 

Gathered, mantle-like, around, 
Till midnight, with its silent tread, 

Crept o'er the darkened ground. 
The last, last day of all the year 

Has closed its weary eye — 
Has fallen in a dreamless sleep 

Beneath a wintry sky. 

And how have we, who stand to-night 

Beside its lowly grave, — 
How have we used the gifts it brought- 

The treasures that it gave ?• 

* Written in the space of two hours. 

26 



CARRIER S ADDRESS. 27 

Ah ! there are whispers of regret 

We breathe above its tomb, 
Our wasted moments mocking us 

From out its silent gloom. 
And there are words of bitterness 

That now we wish unspoken, 
And haunting spectres gathered there, 

Of idols we have broken. 

We all have shattered dreams that lie 

Within that darkened vale. 
Perchance a dear one yielded up — 

A little life grown pale. 
And some have partings to recall 

Of loving hands that met. 
Whose clinging pressure left a pain 

We never can forget. 
For whom does life this wintry night, 

Beneath the starry glow, 
Wear still the self-same hue it wore 

This night twelve months ago ? 

We cannot stay the tide ; as 

Surely as the grayish pall 
Of ashes steals on dying coals. 

Change creeps upon us all. 



28 carrier's address. 

*T is but a year, — a single heave 

Of Life's unresting wave, — 
Yet every surge impels us on 

Toward the end — the grave. 
As one by one we lay them down, 

These years that come and go, 
The sunshine gilds a few, but more 

Are cold with falling snow. 

And some -are dark with heavy clouds. 

Or sadly falling rain. 
That patters drearily upon 

Life's misty window-pane. 
Yet sages tell us life is only 

What we mortals make it ; 
That time is like a looking-glass, — 

Reflecting till we break it. 
The images we see within — 

Let them be foul or fair — 
Are our own deeds, both good and ill, 

As plainly mirrored there. 

We write the judgments on ourselves. 
Frail mortals though we be ; 

Time takes the written scroll into 
The vast eternity. 



CARRIER S ADDRESS. 29 

Our buried years, — who can recall 

The days that once have fled ? 
Of all our friends they, only they 

Lie dead among the dead ; 
For them no resurrection morn 

On earth or heaven shall dawn 
Where we have kissed their clay-cold brows, 

They are forever gone. 

Hark ! as we muse upon the past, 

The bells ring loud and clear, 
The nation welcomes with delight 

The great Centennial year. 
The Democratic banner waves 

Untarnished as of yore ; 
A hundred years lie in its folds, 

'T will see a hundred more. 
Let every heart beat light to-day, 

And swell with proudest joy ; 
And may no man forget to pay 

The faithful Carrier Boy. 



MAGGIE TO FRANK. 



Come and meet me, little brother, 
Come and let me take your hand ; 

Guide me through the darkened valley- 
Leading to the better land. 

I can hear the angels calling 

Softly through the summer's breath ; 

Sleep is sealing down my lashes 
With the icy kiss of death. 

Hasten, brother, close beside me. 
Hold my fingers tightly now, 

For the shadows fast are falling 
Chillingly upon my brow. 

You have been for years in heaven, 

Living in the golden ray ; 
You have crossed the starless river ; 

Brother, dear, you know the way ; 
And I tremble at the darkness 

Closing 'round me as I come ; 
30 



MAGGIE TO FRANK. 31 

I can only hear the angels 
Singing in their shining home 

Far beyond the rolling river, 
Happy on the golden shore, — 

I can hear the music stealing 
Softly through the open door. 

Calling, ever calling to me. 

From across the silent sea 
Lying dark and cold between us — 

Little brother, come for me. 
Now, I feel your clasping fingers 

Folding closely over mine, 
And across the waveiess water 

Golden lights begin to shine. 
Brother, lead your little sister 

Up before the great white throne. 
Where the loving Saviour tells us 

Little children are His own. 



KATE NAILER. 



I braided her shining tresses 

Away from her stainless brow ; 
And crowned her with bridal roses 

As white as unfallen snow. 
With the chrism of love upon her 

She stood in the chamber there, 
As pure as the veil that softened 

The gleam of her golden hair. 

Like some proud ungathered lily, 

So fair in her girlish grace ; 
With not one warm tint flushing 

Her passionless, beautiful face. 
We looked on her radiant whiteness 

Untinged by a rosy breath ; 
And talked of her marble beauty — 

Alas ! God named it death. 

We little thought as she whispered 
The tremulous bridal vow, 
32 



KATE NAILER. 33 

'T was the pure white light of heaven 

We saw on her sinless brow. 
A bright, brief season of gladness 

Swept over the bridegroom and bride, 
Then Kate and her brave young lover 

Slept silently side by side. 

To-day as I stand in her chamber 

And draw back the curtain of years. 
The floods of the past break upon me 

And deluge my spirit with tears. 
I turn from the sorrowful picture, 

The curtain falls back in its place, 
And closely beside me is breaking 

Her smile on a frank, boyish face. 

" Kate's smile, with the eyes of his father,'' 

How often 't is lovingly said, 
With a kiss for the boy they have left us 

And tenderest thoughts of the dead. 
Asleep in their dreamless resting — 

Twin graves on the green hillside — - 
They lie in their clay-cold chamber. 

The bridegroom and beautiful bride. 



TRIBUTE TO THE HONORABLE JACOB 
S. YERGER. 



Hark ! hark ! a slow and mournful sound is break- 
ing 

The sultry stillness of the morning air ; 
It whispers of a " sleep that knows no waking," 

Of sad and loving hearts that swell to bursting 
there. 
Let no wild voice of sorrow rise above him, 

In holy silence lay him down to rest ; 
Embalmed in bitter tears from those who love him, 

His great heart silent in his icy breast. 

He needs no record of terrestrial glory, 

No sculptured shaft to tell the world his name, 
No marble pile, or golden-lettered story, 

To give to coming years his deathless fame. 
In all his gathered greatness now he slumbers, 

The sacred relic of a giant mind ; 
Then breathe, my harp, thy saddest, holiest numbers 

Above the brow unrivalled light entwined. 
34 



TO THE HON. JACOB S. YERGER. 35 

With him the brightness of the day departed, 

And darkness broods above us like a spell — 
Blind justice stood aghast and broken-hearted 

When the great key-stone of her temple fell. 
His intellect, beneath her magic fingers, 

All other minds bowed humbly down before ; 
His place is vacant, but his glory lingers, 

Fadeless and bright, till time shall be no more. 

A mournful dirge through countless hearts is wail- 
ing, 

In solemn silence sable emblems wave ; 
The cypress branches now are sadly trailing, 

Their tear-wet leaves about his honored grave. 
Rest then, in peace, thou pale and dreamless sleeper, 

Reposing in thy dark and silent bed, 
Till roused again by that Almighty keeper. 

Who ceaseless guards the slumbers of the dead. 



AGAIN. 

And shall I meet you once again ? 

My friend of other years — 
My heart is filled with joy and pain, 

With smiles subdued by tears. 

*T is years on years since we have met 
As something more than friends ; 

Those brief, bright joys — shall we forget 
Each love-dream as it ends ? 

Or shall we garner up each word 

That blessed us as it fell ? 
The sweet, sad thoughts by memory stirred, 

We feel, but never tell ! 

Can this be wrong for you and I — 
Such friends as we have been — 

To love our past, the dear gone-by, 
We were so happy in ? 
36 



AGAIN. 37 

We dared not love each other, 

Yet a something half divine — 
A something I would not forget 

For Peru's golden mine — 

Embalmed the precious, holy hours. 

The hours spent with you. 
As night the many sleeping flowers 

Begems with crystal dew. 

But had we both been free to feel 

" The passion of the heart," 
Would fate's unrolling scroll reveal 

That we but met to part ? 

Say, would you then have turned aside 

Your glances from my own ? 
Would I have buried in my pride 

My heart's deep undertone ? 

And now we call each other friend, 

And walk our separate ways — 
While memory rainbows brightly bend 
_ Above the olden days. 



LITTLE MAGGIE. 



My purest pearl, my baby girl, 

With laughing eyes of blue, 
With forehead fair, and curly hair 

Of golden brownish hue. 

Your eyes to-night are clear and bright 

As stars upon the sea ; 
While o'er your cheek red wavelets break 

And ripple rosily. 

I love to see those smiles of glee 

Upon your baby lips ; 
No grief nor care has settled there 

To shadow or eclipse. 

Your dimpled feet, so fair and sweet, 
Upon life's threshold stand — 

Its fairest flowers and purest hours 
Now tremble in your hand. 
38 



LITTLE MAGGIE. 39 

With eager grasp your fingers clasp 

Life's ever-dipping oars ; 
Oh, row with care, sweet baby fair, 

A woman's bark is yours ! 

Your hands so frail must guide your sail 

O'er waters high and wild. 
Whose smoothest sea will never be 

A placid one, my child. 

Your soul will meet with storm and sleet, 

With tempests on your way ; 
For clouds will rise in brightest skies. 

Cast anchor where you may. 

O'er womanhood should sorrow brood 

To bow your woman's pride. 
Like stars at night, let hope's pure light 

Reflect upon the tide. 

The darkest fate that dares await 

Your voyage to enshroud, 
Its power will lose if faith's bright hues 

Are arched upon the cloud. 



40 LITTLE MAGGIE. 

Tho' smiles or tears may tinge your years, 
Shall light or quench their flame, 

My purest love will ever prove 
For you, my child, the same. 

A mother's prayers, a mother's tears, 
Fresh from the heart and eye. 

Upon your curls, my pearl of pearls 
In benediction lie. 



Above her brow the willows now 

In solemn silence wave ; 
In soft perfume the daisies bloom 

About her little grave. 

Two years of love had smiled above 

My darling's golden head, 
When she was laid in gloom and shade 

Among the early dead. 



PLIGHTED. 



My darling, my darling — yes, mine evermore, 

By the love that you give me to night, 
By the sea that is ceaselessly lashing the shore. 

By the stars that are glowing and bright ! 
As pure as the pearls that lie under the wave 

Is the feeling I cherish for you; 
The stars to the angels no light ever gave 

More constant, enduring, and true. 

The touch of your spirit came down upon mine. 

Like the infinite, exquisite light 
In the hearts of the dew-drops that glisten and shine 

On violets blooming at night. 
Ah ! dearest, I knew that you loved me before 

Your lips ever gave me a sign ; 
By the gleam of your eye and the look that it bore, 

By the touch of your hand upon mine. 

By all those wordless and eloquent signs 
Of answering heart unto heart, 
41 



44 MY BABY S SHOE. 

My one, sweet, precious baby girl, 
With eyes of deepest blue — 

The little feet are cold and still 
That wore this pretty shoe. 

The waxen hands are folded now, 
No more to grasp my dress ; 

The childish lips that death had kissed 
I never more shall press. 

I lift my eyes to heaven, and feel 

That she is happy there ; 
But tears fall on the little shoe 

My baby used to wear. 



NEVERMORE. 



'T is over for ever and ever, my dear, 

Our love and the hope it bore ; 
Our dream is dead, and I bow my head, 

And my heart sighs ^* nevermore." 

Nevermore in the long, long years, my dear. 

That the circling ages bring, 
We shall walk for aye in the changeless gray 

Of the shadows that they fling. 

We shall drift away from each other, ray dear, 

On the weird, wild sea of years. 
Where neither can know of the passionate flow 

Of the other's regretful tears. 

But oft in the days to come, my dear, 

Will a lingering love arise 
From the distant shore, and shall stand before 

Our wistfully weeping eyes. 
45 



46 NEVERMORE. 

Oh, the wide, wide waves between us, dear, 

May never again be crossed. 
But over the sea, for you and for me, 

Is waiting the love we lost ! 



LITTLE CHILDREN. 



God bless the little children, 

The little boys and girls, 
With rosy cheeks and laughing eyes, 

And floating, sunny curls. 

The pretty roguish dimples 

A smile will bring about ; 
And lips like parted rosebuds, 

Or folded in a pout. 

Dear, loving little children. 
With hearts as pure as dew. 

With honest eyes that look in ours, 
So fearless, bright, and true. 

Our lives are nobler, better. 

Brightened by these human flowers. 
And we hold them so much dearer. 

For these little lives of ours. 
47 



46 NEVERMORE. 

Oh, the wide, wide waves between us, dear, 

May never again be crossed. 
But over the sea, for you and for me, 

Is waiting the love we lost ! 



LITTLE CHILDREN. 



God bless the little children, 

The little boys and girls, 
With rosy cheeks and laughing eyes, 

And floating, sunny curls. 

The pretty roguish dimples 

A smile will bring about ; 
And lips like parted rosebuds, 

Or folded in a pout. 

Dear, loving little children. 
With hearts as pure as dew. 

With honest eyes that look in ours, 
So fearless, bright, and true. 

Our lives are nobler, better. 

Brightened by these human flowers, 
And we hold them so much dearer. 

For these little lives of ours. 
47 



48 LITTLE CHILDREN. 

A simple child may lead us 

To the heights of faith sublime ; 

Or a baby's dimpled fingers 
Draw a man away from crimeo 

A mother's soul is purer 

For the soul her own has borne, 

And her breast a sacred altar 
For the jewel it has worn. 

And when we lay our darlings 
Down to sleep beneath the sod ; 

The little folded fingers clasp 
Us closer to our God. 

Then we turn all sorrow- stricken 
From this weary world of sin 

To follow up the stairway 

Where those little feet have been. 

They make life fairer, sweeter. 
With their innocence and love ; 

They sanctify '' God's Acre," 
And they gem His court above. 



LITTLE CHILDREN. 49 

We welcome little children 

To our hearts with bended knees, 

Thanking God that He should trust us 
With the care of such as these. 



TO MY HUSBAND. 



I am thinking of you, darling, 

Oh ! so tenderly to-night. 
And my heart is throbbing low, 
With a pulse of long-ago, 
Trembling sweetly in the glow 

Of its softly shining light, 

I am looking back, my darling, 

Through the flooding light of years, 
Back to our bridal hour. 
When our love, a folded flower. 
Had not known the thrilling power 
Of a beauty born of tears. 

I thought I loved you, darling, 

With a woman's utmost love ; 
Thought no living heart could bring 
Richer tribute to its king ; 
50 



TO MY HUSBAND. 51 

Deemed my love a priceless thing, 
That the gods could not improve. 



But there came a time, my darling- 
Such a precious time of joy, 
When two years had glided o'er, 
Then I knew I loved you more. 
Oh, my husband, than before 
I had kissed our baby boy. 

Other little ones, my darling, 

Come, our happy hearts to fill, 
And, as on my loving breast 
Curly heads were rocked to rest, 
Every little cheek I pressed 
Made me love you better still. 

In the time of grief, my darling, 

When death's cruel shadow lay 
On the young lamb of our fold, 
And the little hands grew cold 
Slipping softly from our hold — 
How I loved you on that day ! 



52 TO MY HUSBAND. 

Three precious babes, my darling, 

We have laid away to rest — 
When our jewels we had given 
To the Savior's crown in heaven, 
When our hearts were tempest-riven 
Then, I think I loved you best. 



Thirteen varied years, my darling. 
Our plighted lives have known ; 
Thirteen swiftly vanished years, 
Bringing more of hopes than fears — 
Many more of smiles than tears 
These eventful years have shown. 

In the sweet hereafter, darling, 

When the paths our feet have trod 
Pass beyond the river clear. 
May the love we cherished here 
Brighten far each vanished tear — 
Bless us in the home of God. 



THOSE EYES. 



Dreaming shadows flit about me, 

Making play-things on the wall, 
All the household has grown silent, 

There is darkness in the hall. 
I can feel a spirit-presence 

Standing closely by my side, 
That thrills my inmost being 

With a dream I thought had died. 

It whispers to me mockingly 

Of hopes that once were mine — 
Bright gems that on the darkness 

Of the present vainly shine. 
Tresses brightly brown and waving, 

Eyes of richest, rarest blue. 
With lovers own entrancing starlight 

Trembling softly through the blue. 

Oh, those eyes, so blue and tender, 
Looking love deep into mine, 
53 



54 THOSE EYES. 

How they woo my weary spirit 
Back unto the olden shrine ! 

Words can never paint the power 
Of the fairy spell that lies 

In the speaking, magic circle, 

Of those deep, heart-searching eyes. 

I can see them in the twilight, 

And they look up with the dew ; 
Even in the deepest darkness 

They can read my being through. 
Ah ! those dancing eyes of azure — 

Precious jewels of the past — 
Do they sparkle still as brightly 

As they shone upon me last ? 

Or within their olden lustre 

Does a shadowed sorrow sleep, 
Like the faintest cloud reflected 

In the bosom of the deep ? 
Underneath those drooping lashes 

Lies a dream forever hid, 
Like a shrined and sacred relic. 

Shrouded 'neath a coffin lid. 



THOSE EYES. 55 

But I know the restless spirit 

From its sepulchre must rise, 
And often veil the splendor 

Of those unforgotten eyes. 
I have idolized their beauty 

In the by-gone happy years, 
But I love them best when thinking 

They are wet with memory's tears. 



TO — . 

Can my light smile bring back again 

Long-buried scenes of joy to thee ? 
Can my poor presence wean anew 

The scattered links of memory ? 
Ah, no ! 't is but reflected light 

That plays around thy heart for me ; 
Reflected from a blissful past — 

A past now immortality. 

Then think not in my smile to find 

A balm for thy heart's buried woe ; 
The harp that played the tune of love 

For thee was broken long ago. 
'T is vanished now, and with it fled 

The love thou canst not feel again ; • 
The music now within thy heart 

Is but the echo of that strain. 

Not mine the power to wake anew 
The broken harp of olden time ; 
56 



TO -. 57 

The chords that thrilled beneath her hand 
Would wake no note of joy to mine, 

The bright and blissful past has fled, 
For thee it never can return ; 

Yet if my smile can bring thee joy. 
On friendship' s altar let it burn, 
February y 1864. 



THE LITTLE BOY I LOST. 



There hangs upon our cottage wall 

A picture, full of childish grace, 
Bright golden curls are clinging round 

And framing in the boyish face. 
From under lashes long and curled 

The large, dark eyes look down on me^ 
And through the parted coral lips 

The tiny, pearly teeth I see. 

Upon a scarlet cushion there 

The little dimpled fingers rest. 
The velvet jacket parts above 

The fluted ruffles on the breast 
I look upon it and my heart 

By waves of recollection tost 
Is shaken with the memory of 

The little boy I long have lost. 

A fairy child, so wondrous sweet. 

That strangers paused to look at him, 

58 



THE LITTLE BOY I LOST. 59 

My lovely boy whose very thought 

Still makes his mother's eyes grow dim. 

Once when his little feet had dipped 
Almost in death's cold, cruel wave, 

I felt as if my heart would lie 
A broken thing upon his grave. 

He loved me so — my baby son — 

His little hands would creep to mine, 
And mingling with my darker hair, 

His golden curls would glint and shine. 
Kiss after kiss his rosy lips 

Against my cheek would often press, 
And many times his playful hands 

Left finger-marks upon my dress. 

Sweet, precious touches, I would prize 

And smile upon as mothers will ; 
How gladly I would see again 

Those little hand-prints on me still. 
But many years have come and gone, 

My sunny child has passed away, 
And vainly I stretch out my arms 

To clasp him to my heart to-day. 



6o THE LITTLE BOY I LOST, 

I know I have forever lost 

The darling boy I loved so well ; 
The wild pain sweeping through my heart, 

No verse of mine can ever tell. 
His little golden head will rest 

Upon his mother's knee no more, 
The tiny bark whose sails I set 

Has stranded on a barren shore. 

The other little ones who went, 

Before me to the golden land 
I hope sometimes to claim again. 

And feel them clinging to my hand, 
But this, my first and best beloved. 

The sweetest joy my heart has known. 
Has drifted far away from me. 

Beyond my loving arms has grown. 

The rosy lips are wearing now 

The down of manhood's early dawn ; 

And from the ruddy, velvet cheek 
The childish dimples long have gone. 

The timid feet I taught to step 

Ring out now with a manly tread ; 



THE LITTLE BOY I LOST. 6 1 

The baby fingers slipped from mine, 
A strong hand clasps my own instead. 

The boy I once bent down to kiss 

Must bend to kiss his mother now; 
The golden curls no longer cling 

In clustered glory on his brow. 
A man among the world of men. 

My little son, no longer mine ; 
The very life within my heart 

Is offered on another shrine. 

The world has taken from my arms 

The treasure God himself hath spared ; 
The pure, sweet love I thought all mine 

It seems, at best, I only shared. 
The shining curl of golden hair 

That I have kept so many years — 
I look upon it sadly now. 

And dim its beauty with my tears. 

The children lying in their graves 

Asleep beyond the rippling sea ; 
The treasures that I gave to God 

Seem nearer to me now than he. 



62 THE LITTLE BOY I LOST. 

The busy, rushing, careless world 
Another to its ranks has won — 

A man to meet life as a man, 
But I have lost my little son. 
yuly^ 1882. 



THE HEAD THAT SHELTERED MINE. 



INSCRIBED TO MY FATHER AND MOTHER, MR. AND MRS. 
HARPER P. HUNT, VICKSBURG, MISS. 

" Your hair is still as dark, dear wife. 

As when we both were young, 
And scarcely one gray thread I find 

Amid your tresses strung ; 
Your clear brown eyes look into mine 

With all their early light ; 
I gaze into their depths and feel 

I am not old to-night. 

*^ Yet thirty years have laid their leaves 

In blossom on your brow, 
Since my young bosom thrilled to hear 

Your low-toned bridal vow. 
Thrice ten sweet years for me have borne 

Their fruitage in your life — 
A harvest of unfailing love, 

My noble, dear old wife. 
63 



64 THE HEAD THAT SHELTERED MINE. 

" And here we sit alone to-night, 

The wind wails through the trees, 
No little ones are clinging now 

Nor toddling round our knees. 
The brown-eyed boy who lies asleep 

Upon the old hill's brow, 
Of all our little nurslings, is 

Our only baby now. 

" The others we have lost as well, 

God knows — perhaps 't is best — 
They fill their places in the world, 

We hold the empty nest. 
I sometimes think, dear wife, that I 

Would like to turn the tide, 
And fling it backward till I stood 

A bridegroom at your side. 

" Would tread the early years again 

On upward day by day. 
With children's laughter ringing out 

Once more in joyous play. 
We were so very happy then, 

Our little ones were ours : 
But time has swept them from our arms 

As fruit must follow flowers. 



THE HEAD THAT SHELTERED MINE. 65 

" Now you and I together stand 

Beneath life's falling snow, 
To meet the winter as we met 

The spring of long ago. 
My hair is almost white, but yours 

Is dark and rippling yet, 
As in the sweet dawn of the year, 

Sweet wife, when first we met." 

The soft brown eyes look up to his, 

A trembling hand is laid 
Upon the snowy locks that time 

And care have caused to fade. 
A tender smile of perfect love 

Breaks like a sudden dawn 
Upon her face, then tear-drops come 

Before the smile is gone. 

^* Ah ! love, the storms of life have beat 

On your uncovered brow 
As fiercely as the wind that sweeps 

About the old house now ; 
But from the tempest and the snow, 

With love almost divine. 
This dear old head has always bent 

And ever sheltered mine.'' 



WEDDED TO ANOTHER. 



She is wedded to another now 

Who once was pledged to me, 
And what I fondly pictured once 

I know can never be. 
Yet still I love to think upon 

The bright and glorious past, 
And breathe a sigh, e'er withered hopes 

Too purely sweet to last. 

They say 'tis madness to recall 

The love of early youth — 
'T is folly now to kneel before 

That broken idol, truth. 
Yet still the old, sweet dream of joy 

About my memory clings, 
And to my heart a trembling wail 

Of saddest music brings. 

Back through the mist of buried years 
Its tones are lingering yet 
66 



WEDDED TO ANOTHER. 67 

Recalling to my saddened heart, 

The dream I should forget. 
Forget ! How easily the word 

By careless lips is spoken 
As though the woven ties of love 

Could easily be broken. 

'T was fate she told me — not her will — 

That severed us for aye ; 
Her father frowned upon our love ; 

She dared not disobey. 
I know she loved me by her tears, 

And by the kiss she gave, 
The shadow of our parting hour 

Will fall into my grave. 

To-day we met — she veiled her eyes 

From mine with firmest will ; 
Ah ! did she fear that I might read 

In them, she loved me still ? 
Did some sweet bell from out the past 

Send forth its magic chime 
That bore within its mellow tone 

Thoughts of the olden time ? 



68 WEDDED TO ANOTHER. 

Did retrospection on her soul 

With subtle power steal ; 
Awaking in her eyes a light 

She dares not now reveal ? 
The present hour belongs to him, 

And he may deem it fair ; 
The past I claim, for well I know, 

My image triumphs there. 

Though fate has parted us, and now 
Her life with his will twine, 

Thank God ! he may not — cannot know 
The love that once was mine. 



OUR STARLIT HOUR. 



My darling, do you remember still 

A beautiful summer night, 
When the roses nodded to the breeze, 
And the bluebirds slept in the dear old trees, 

And the stars were grandly bright ? 

The rising winds about our feet 

The rose leaves gently tossed ; 
The words you whispered — I hear them still 
Like the murmuring sound of a distant rill 

Whose waves my feet have crossed. 

The pale sweet blooms of jessamine swung 

Like waxen censers there, 
And the blue-eyed violets woke from sleep 
In softer fragrance still to steep 

The stirring summer air. 

Oh, life was sweet in that holy hour ; 
But only the angels knew 
69 



^0 OUR STARLIT HOUR. 

That earth was heaven, and heaven was ours, 
As we stood there in the midst of flowers 
All bright with the sparkling dew. 

The music swelled, we could see the dance 

Through curtains of falling lace ; 
Ah ! beauty and wealth were there that night, 
But all I saw was the quivering light 
Of love on your passionate face. 

That once our souls had purely met, 

That once our paths had crossed — 
The wine of love, as it sparkled up. 
We drank till we drained the golden cup, 
And the hour was lived and — lost. 

Back to the world we went at last, 
Back from the stars and flowers ! 
Away from that fragrant bower of bliss, 
Yet, all through life remembering this, 
One beautiful dream of ours. 



FALLING LEAVES. 



One by one the bright leaves fall 

From the roses red and the roses white ; 
The violet sweet and the lily tall, 
The clinging vines on the garden wall — - 
They droop in a single night. 

Bright leaves of softly shining green 

Then crimson, yellow and reddish brown 
And every color and shade are seen 
In the forest aisles where death has been, 
And stricken the leaflets down. 

They rustle beneath our heedless feet, 

And we pass them by with a careless tread, 
Crushing the fragrance, strangely sweet, 
From every flower and leaf we meet, 
In our walk among the dead. 

Oh ! withered leaves that flutter down 
From tree and flower and daisy bloom, 
71 



72 FALLING LEAVES. 

Shining beneath the autumn's frown, 
No marble shaft for your renown, 
Shall rise above your tomb. 

Like human hearts that bleed and break 

In silence underneath the cross — 
No tear-drop trembles for your sake, 
No sobbing voice will ever make 
A requiem for your loss. 



DISAPPOINTED. 



Just one more kiss, my darling, 
The dearest and the last — 

The sacred sacramental seal 
Upon our precious past. 

I clasp you in my arms to-night, 
My tears drop on your head, 

My kisses fall upon your brow, 
As mothers kiss their dead. 

To-morrow our two lives shall be 

For evermore apart, 
And silence settle like a pall 

Upon my lips and heart. 

My way and yours divide to-night. 
Your sweet lips tell me so — 

And yet your eyes are full of tears- 
My darling, must I go ? 
73 



74 DISAPPOINTED. 

I must ! well, then, good-night, love ; 

I cannot say good-bye, 
Nor promise to forget you — 

I shall not even try. 

I love you with a man's deep love, 

That time can never dim. 
While yours was but a passing thought, 

A transient girlish whim. 

I know you did not mean it, dear, 
Nor think to give me pain. 

But life for me can never be 
The same bright thing again. 



A BROKEN HOPE. 



A maiden's downcast blushing face 

Beneath the floating bridal veil ; 
A strong hand warmly clasping hers 

Before the low white altar rail. 
The cloud-like incense rising up 

From silver censers as they swing ; 
A priest with pure, uplifted hands ; 

A solemn prayer — a wedding ring. 

A woman strong and sweet and true, 

A man in manhood's fullest prime, 
An union mystical and sweet, 

A tie so new and so sublime. 
The dainty little garments made 

In secret with such loving care ; 
A fresh hope springing in the heart, 

A fountain of unceasing prayer. 

******* 

75 



76 A BROKEN HOPE. 

A sudden dashing of the light, 

A cloud of deepest, darkest gloom ; 
The rustle of an angel's wing, 

A casket crowned with snowy bloom. 
A little lamp unlighted on 

The altar of a pulseless breast ; 
A broken hope, twin souls in heaven, 

A man's despair, a woman's rest. 



NOT ONE TO SPARE. 



Oh, yes, I know I am poor, ma'am, 

And work very hard by the day ; 
And then I have so many children, 

'T is all very true, as you say. 
Then clothing and food for so many 

Mount up in a month — that is so ; 
But then — I dare say, I am foolish — 

I could not let one of them go. 

There 's Jimmie — that lad in the corner,- 

He 's just turning into fourteen ; 
And quick with his figures he is, ma'am, 

The smartest boy ever you seen. 
And Jimmie is doing right well now. 

For one of his size, so to speak. 
He *s running of errands at Johnson's, 

And brings me three dollars a week. 

That 's Jessie — she 's my little woman, — 
And when I go out by the day 

77 



78 NOT ONE TO SPARE. 

She looks to the house and the children, 
And 'tends 'em while I am away. 

That boy with the holes in his elbows, 
And eyes that are sparkling so ? 

Give him ! I could n't indeed, ma'am, 
I never could spare little Joe. 

He takes brother Jimmie his dinner. 

And brings sister Jessie her wood ; 
Then sometimes he kindles the fire. 

And washes the dishes right good. 
That little girl holding the kitten, 

With soft yellow curls and blue eyes ? 
Can't work ? Indeed, you don't know, ma'am, 

How much she can do when she tries. 

She runs in and out for the others, 

And plays with the baby all day ; 
You see she 's a great help to Jessie, 

Whenever I 'm out of the way. 
The baby ? Give you little Johnny ; 

Oh, that 's the hardest thing yet ; 
Not all of your riches and diamonds 

Could pay me for my little pet. 



NOT ONE TO SPARE. 79 

Then baby is called for his father — 

John died just a twelvemonth ago, — 
And may be his name is the reason 

We always have petted him so. 
You see we are all used to working, 

And living on commonest fare ; 
Then one will divide with the other ; 

And so I have not one to spare. 



REMEMBRANCE. 



Oh ! give me the past with its clear golden light, 
Its beautiful dreamings that made it so bright ; 
The stars that looked down from the azure and 

smiled 
So brilliantly on me when I was a child. 
Before me now rolls the great sea of the past, 
Whose waves all about me its jewels have cast ; 
And one that is dearest, and brightest, and best, 
I gather one moment to press to my breast. 

I gaze on its brightness, and see in that gleam 

A face that once haunted love's earliest dream. 

The dream has long faded, the face passed away. 

The hopes that we cherished have gone to decay. 

Once madly I cast them away in my pride. 

And now fling their memory-gem in the tide. 

I stand at the tomb of those long-vanished years. 

Where the waves, lashing high, leave it studded with 

tears. 

80 



REMEMBRANCE. 8l 

Each tear is a jewel that bears on its breast 

Some moment that has been or might have been 

blest ; 
That " might have been," does it not call up a spell, 
O'er which we still linger and tenderly dwell ? 
The clasping of hands that once lovingly met, 
Tho' forever estranged, we can never forget ; 
That sweet thrill of happiness — joy without name, — 
That vanished as swiftly almost as it came ; 

That pure exhalation of heavenly bliss — 
The rapture of love's first bewildering kiss ! 
These things come but once in the lifetime of men ; 
When lost we can never recall them again. 
But though the hot tears to their memory flow, 
As we kneel at the grave of the dear long-ago. 
There still is one joy to the aching heart pressed, 
And we cling to the thought that we once have 
been blessed ; 

That down the dim aisles of the far-away past 
Some moments, bright, blissful, if brief, have been 

cast ; 
Though many bright stars in our heaven have set, 
They light up the sweet vale of memory yet ; 



82 REMEMBRANCE. 

Like pearls in the breast of a dark heaving sea, 
They glow in the depths of a sad memory. 
Though life should be wrapped in a shroud of 

regret, 
Thank God for remembrance — we can never forget ! 



ACROSS THE WAY. 



THE HOME OF MRS. G. H. MENSING, GALVESTON. 

I sit in swift-falling shadows 

That mantle the close of the day, 

And look at the bright-tinted picture 
Of happiness over the way. 

There, just near the open window, 
Through foldings of filmy lace, 

Shines forth on the outer darkness 
A fair woman's radiant face. 

Three bright little children are clinging 
And climbing about on her knee ; 

While ripples of childish laughter 
Come eddying over to me. 

Now Charlie is teasing a kitten 
That hid just under his chair ; 
83 



84 ACROSS THE WAY. 

And Gussie is cunningly stealing 
The comb from her shining hair. 

While dear little yellow-haired Alice, 
The youngest and pet of them all, 

Is calling her two little brothers 
To come out and play in the hall. 

The warm lights dropping about them 
Fall bright on the carpeted floor ; 

The sunset is flinging a pathway 
Of quivering gold through the door. 

The soft summer breezes are stirring 
The oak leaves over the gate. 

Like the beating of passionate pulses 
When loving hearts listen and wait. 

The latch of the gateway is turning, 
A footstep is heard on the stair, 

A shadow falls into the door-way ; 
The little ones welcome him there. 

And she who is queen of his kingdom, 
The sweet mother-bird of his nest, 



ACROSS THE WAY. 85 

Just raises her eyes for an instant, 
To hide them again on his breast. 

As lights from the parlor are gleaming, 
The shade at the window is drawn ; 

My picture is lost, and my hour 
Of roseate twilight is gone. 



LIFE'S CHANGES. 



The sunlight shimmers on all below, 
The violets breathe and the roses blow, 
Bringing the beautiful long-ago 
Back to my heart again. 

Where the lilies grew in the deepest shade, 
And even the drooping rose-leaves made 
A fragrant path where the angels strayed 
To touch my soul with light. 

I gayly sang my childish lays, 
And blither still were my girlish days, 
When friends stood by to smile and praise 
Each word and deed of mine. 

While Fortune from her chalice fair 
Flung golden showers on the air — 
And I was glad, for I thought despair 
To me could never come. 
86 



life's changes. 87 

My life was like some flowering vine, 
That gaily danced in the bright sunshine, 
As though the earth and its joys were mine — 
Alas ! how little I knew. 

But the golden sun went down at last. 
And the bright blue sky was overcast — 
Till even the timid stars have passed 
In shivering fright away. 

Soon fickle Fortune fled the scene, 
Cold darkness reigned where light had been. 
And heavy clouds rose up between 
My happy youth and me. 

The leaves of womanhood unfold, 
For me, without one tint of gold. 
And age seems dreary, dark, and cold — 
I scarce should dread the grave. 

But for the light that never dies. 
That ghmmers still beyond the skies, 
To guide the dead when they shall rise. 
My soul would faint indeed. 



ONLY A MEMORY NOW. 



Only the hush of a soft June night, 
With a deep-blue sky and its starry light 
That fell on the roses freshly bright — 
Only a memory now. 

Only the violets blooming there, 
Freighting the slumb'rous summer air, 
Weaving the beauty the angels wear- 
Only a memory now. 

Only a whispered word or two 
From eager lips and the eyes of blue, 
Looking so honest, brave, and true — 
Only a memory now. 

Only a silent, sweet caress, 
On a girlish brow and a waving tress, 
The faintest sound of a whispered ^' Yes "■ 
Only a memory now. 
88 



ONLY A MEMORY NOW. 89 

Only an hour of foolish bliss, 
Of clasping hands, and a lover's kiss 
That youth has known and life must miss — 
Only a memory now. 

Only a pale dead love that lies, 
With dumb, cold lips and sightless eyes, 
Barring the gates of Paradise — 
Only a memory now. 



AT REST. 



O, weep for the friends who are gone, 
When farewells are tenderly said ; 
Weep, weep for thyself if alone, 
But shed not a tear for the dead. 

Thrice happy are they who thus sleep, 
With spring flowers blooming, above. 
No tear-drops bedew the pale cheek 
They know not of hatred nor love. 

When life with its sobbing and tears 
Lies hushed in the night of the tomb, 
When all the old passion and pride 
Are lost in the dark of its gloom, 

Their slumber is pleasant and deep 
Unbroken by dreaming or pain. 
The woes that so wearied them here 
Will weary them never again. 
90 



AT REST. 91 

No sorrow can shadow them now, 
No agony torture the breast, 
All lines fade away from the brow, 
When Death rocks the cradle to rest. 



EXPERIENCE. 



Bring none of your sorrowful tales to me, 
Nor talk of your falling tears ; 

My heart is singing a song of glee 
In the flush of my girlish years. 

A funeral train goes by, you say, 
With its sable plumes all curled ; 

Do close the door, as it comes this way : 
I would not look out for the world, 

I have seen but once a cold, dead face, 
With never a pulse nor breath — 

The graveyard must be a horrible place, 
With nothing but bones and death. 

Pray turn that beggar outside of the gate, 
And teach him to know his place, 

It makes me shiver to think of the great. 
Deep scar on his pallid face. 
92 



EXPERIENCE. 93 

I dream bad dreams and loose my sleep 

Whenever these things I meet, 
I think that a law should be made to keep 

Such objects out of the street. 

You say that Nellie sat up last night 

Alone with a dying child ! 
How could she do it ? The very sight 

Of the sick would drive me wild. 

The mother was tired and quite undone ? 

I could not help that, I am sure ; 
I know I never could be the one 

To drudge in the huts of the poor. 

I live in the golden gleam of light ; 

My life is a field of flowers, 
I shrink from the gloom and dark of night 

In dread of its dismal hours. 

Then bring no tale of your woe to me, 

Nor talk of your falling tears ; 
My heart is singing a song of glee, 

So glad are my girlish years. 



94 EXPERIENCE. 

My last child died in my arms to-night, 

Alone in the bitter dark, 
For the city a thousand jets of light 

For me, not a single spark. 

I press my lips to the cold, dead brow 

I never again shall see, 
O ghastly friend ! you are welcome now, 

There is nothing but death for me. 



JUST SO ! 

You may talk of the wise, prudent lady 
Who never was known to be kissed : 

But give me the dear little maiden 
Whose lips I can never resist. 

'T is I *d not care for a woman, 

Who frowned at the touch of her hand ; 

But the pressure of soft rosy fingers 
I swear I could never withstand. 

I heard of some lovers who never 

Their haughty Dulcineas embraced — 

That is all well enough — they are suited — 
But 'tis, not at all to my taste. 

Engaged to a girl and not kiss her, 
Is something I don't understand ; 

Why, I never can sit by my darling 
Without slyly, squeezing her hand. 
95 



g6 JUST so ! 

Just think of it, boys, for a moment — 
The rapture, the exquisite bliss, 

Of two rosy lips lifted up to your own, 
And you bending down for a kiss. 

A kiss is so very entrancing, 

It bears such a marvelous charm ; 

Don't tell me any thing so delightful 
Could possibly be any harm. 



MY PICTURES. 



[Inscribed to my brother and sister^ Mr, and Mrs, H. S. Htini, 
of Sa7i Francisco J Cal.~\ 

While my heart is softly singing 

To itself a low-toned song, 
And the white waves of remembrance 

Surge within it deep and strong ; 
Tossing upward to the surface 

Pearly pleasures I have lost, 
I can hear the gentle murmur 

Of the waters I have crossed. 

Of the sunny stream of childhood 

That has flown so far away ; 
Rippling, sparkling in the sunlight 

Of a pure and cloudless day, 
Gliding through the shifting shadows, 

Gleaming beautiful and bright — 
Speeding onward through the meadows 

Like a living thing of light. 
97 



98 MY PICTURES. 

Ah ! SO Strong is the remembrance 

That I almost seem to be, 
Once again among the children 

Gathered at my Mother's knee ; 
And how lovingly she folded 

Each bright head upon her breast, 
But we always knew that Mother 

Loved her only boy the best. 

Our brave, honest-hearted brother, 

How his merry boyish face 
Rises up to-day before me, 

In its old accustomed place. 
But there came a day of parting. 

Full of sorrow and of pain. 
When he knelt before our Mother 

As he never may again. 

And she claspe-d him to her bosom 

With a low, heart-broken cry, 
Feeling quite the bitter anguish 

Of his death in that "good-bye." 
Time, with all its many changes. 

And its years, cannot destroy 
The sad picture of our Mother 

Parting from her only boy. 



MY PICTURES. 99 

I can see our white-haired Father 

Lay his hands upon his head ; 
I can almost hear the falter 

Of the last few words he said. 
But a murmur, low and broken, 

Bidding God-speed to his son — 
The sire had almost finished 

When the boy had just begun. 

How the years have glided onward 
Like the ocean, wave on wave : 

Summer roses long have blossomed 

Sweetly over Father's grave. 

And across the rolling prairie. 
From beside the sunset sea, 

Came to-day two pictured faces, 
Full of happy light to me. 

One so handsome, frank, and noble, 

Full of manhood's honest pride ; 
One so fair and sweet and girlish — 

Like my brother and his bride. 
In the manly face before me. 

Wearing all its bridal joy ; 
I can trace the perfect likeness 

Of the happy-hearted boy. 



lOO MY PICTURES. 

Something older, somewhat graver — 

* Tis the same, yet not the. same — 
Like the glowing of a fire 

That has lost its flushing flame. 
Ah ! these youthful, pictured faces 

Bring a gladness to my life, 
As my heart in fond affection 

Folds my brother and his wife, 

Galveston, Texas, June ii, 1880. 



ONLY A DREAM. 



I sit alone in the shadows — 

Alone in the purple gloom 
Of the silent summer twilight, 

That steals in the quiet room. 
The breath of the past is upon me, 

It comes on the dewy air, 
To steep my soul in the fragrance 

Of the flowers it used to wear. 

My heart goes back to the summer, 

When the roses were all aglow. 
And my spirit was touched with a secret, 

That every woman must know. 
Does it come but once, I wonder — 

But once in our whole life long — 
And shall my future be ever 

An echo of this sad song ? 

The song that is ever repeating 
Its wild notes through my brain, 

lOZ 



I02 ONLY A DREAM. 

Sometimes with a dash of rapture, 
Sometimes with a throb of pain. 

Ever and ever about me 
Quickening, my pulses flow, 

Bringing his image before me, 
Whether I will or no. 

My fingers thrill and tremble 

In the phantom clasp of his own — 
The spell of his stronger spirit. 

Upon my spirit is thrown ; 
And yet, it is over forever ; 

Our dream and the bliss it brought — 
But the past is radiant always 

With the gleam of the light it caught. 



A NOON-DAY DREAM. 



(inscribed to the M. D. R.'s of GALVESTON.) 

It was a warm, fresh day in early spring ; 

The sun sent drifts of golden glory down, 
As though the wealth of Heaven he sought to fling, 

With lavish hand, upon earth's floral crown. 
Beneath the oleander's budding bloom 

Upon a couch of velvet moss I lay. 
My senses steeped in softened sweet perfume, 

Until I slept and dreamed at noon of day. 

I slept, and in my dream before me passed 

A pageant, glittering, grand, and purely white, 
As falls of snow from Arctic heavens cast — 

So grand, so dazzling to my raptured sight. 
While music swelled upon the throbbing air, 

And men in royal robes rode proudly on 
Their gallant steeds, with housings deadly fair, 

Each helmet down, each visor closely drawn, 
103 



104 A NOON-DAY DREAM. 



First came a glittering, spotless car that bore 
A graceful form, with ready spear in rest : 
Beneath her feet swung stars of gleaming ore ; 

Her broad shield clasped upon her snowy breast ; 
The laurel hung about her temples fair 
And trailed its leaves down through her floating 

hair. 
I bent in reverence before the great 
And royal emblem of our Sovereign State. 

II. 

This passed, another came ; more lovely seemed 

This second vision to my dreaming eye. 
I saw a mountain, and wild waters streamed 

In rushing brightness, dashing madly by. 
A hero stood amid his warriors true ; 

A holy priest his cross and vestment bore — 
This lordly man, De Soto, well I knew, 

Planting the cross on Mississippi's shorCo 

III. 

The sunlight fell across the fragrant lea, 
As on and on the spotless pageant came ; 



A NOON-DAY DREAM. I05 

I saw a rock beside a distant sea, 

An altar with its white uprising flame. 

A solemn, silent group, they gathered there — 
Poor Pilgrims fleeing the oppressor's rod — 

And every knee was bent in breathless prayer, 
And every heart was lifted up to God. 

IV. 

Now glides before me one whose noble face 

Is printed on each loyal Southern heart ; 
Upon his warlike steed, with princely grace. 

Our own brave Lee bears out his noble part. 
A daring soldier grasps his bridle rein, 

His rough face clouded with an anxious fear ; 
He lifts his hand again, and still again. 

And points in deep entreaty to the rear. 



Scarce had this. vision passed, when whitely shines 
Young Pocahontas in her beauty wild ; 

The storms that shriek among her native pines 
Are beating in the bosom of their child. 

Condemned to cruel, ignominious death, 
She sees her lover. At her father's feet 



Io6 A NOON-DAY DREAM. 

She flings herself and her imploring breath 
Has saved a life to love and fame so sweet. 

VI. 

The next a Turkish scene, where on the throne 

The grand Al Rashid sits in regal state, 
The signs of royalty about him strewn ; 

While on his majesty his vassals wait. 
The long white line wound on, with here and there 

A sudden flash of crimson-hearted flame ; 
Music and fragrance filled the sunlit air, 

As, sweeping past, the glorious pageant came. 

VII. 

Swift following upon another car. 

Is borne the lovely victor of Calais ; 
Bright with the honors of successful war, 

Her soft cheek blooming with a nation's praise. 
With heaven's own inspiration in her face — 

The precious work that God delights to make — 
She stands aflush with youth, and hope and grace. 

The lovely Maid who perished at the stake. 

VIII. 

I still must sleep — for still I seem to dream, 
Britania smiles in marble majesty ; 



A NOON-DAY DREAM. J07 

Her hand rests on her couchant lion's mane, 
Her Saxon sons around her brave and free. 

Great England stands in classic marble chains 
Beneath a flood of sunshine full and fair. 

What if her hands are dark with bloody stains ! 
A royal crown shines grandly in her hair. 

SECOND. 
IX. 

From a high and rocky steep, 

Royal eyes that sadly weep 

Over forest, glade and fell. 
Mournful, taking their last farewell. 

Regal houses, fallen down, 

Ruined ermine, broken crown. 

Through misfortune's shadowed door 
Floats the Last Sigh of The Moor. 



A hero from an age now dead. 

Who bound upon his lordly head 

The brightest chaplet of renown. 

And proudly wore the well-earned crown, 

In stolid grandeur — now I see 

Napoleon — man of destiny ! 



I08 A NOON-DAY DREAM. 

XI. 

Who is he who smilingly stands. 
Like a guest from unknown lands ? 

Underneath the violet skies — 

Sleep already in his eyes — 
A sailor to a happier coast, 
Rip Van Winkle drinks the toast. 

XII. 

The swiftly changing scene now brings 
A grand conclave of earthly kings ; 
Columbia's colors are unfurled, 
She proudly welcomes all the world. 
A hundred years her heart has known, 
Their light upon her brow is thrown. 

All nations in their pride and power 
Bow down before their Century Flower. 

XIII. 

Buried in wreathes of ivy green 

A marble sepulchre is seen — 

Cold guardian of a brave man's dust, 
Who sleeps the sleep of all the just — 

His name in lettering of gold, 

Upon a nation's heart is told. 



A NOON-DAY DREAM» IO9 

From age to age time bears it on — 
Peerless, immortal Washington. 



XIV. 

In far primeval forests green, 
A fierce and warlike group is seen, 
They freely clasp the whiter hand 
Of him who comes from Eastern land. 
Their untaught natures bending down 
Before the Spanish monarch's crown. 
Columbus holds in friendly grasp 
Those savage fingers in his clasp. 

XV. 

Lounging idly on the ground 
By his tub, the world renowned, 

In apparent peace and ease, 

Lo ! we see Diogenes. 
Pausing in his grand estate, 
Alexander, justly great. 

Asks some favor to confer 

Upon the calm philosopher. 
And from the mighty conqueror's store 
He asks his sunshine, nothing more. 



no A NOON-DAY DREAM. 

XVI. 

Alas ! that we should see arise, 
Beneath the nineteenth century skies, 

That bloody scene, long gone before. 
Which splashed old England's name with gore- 
Unhappy Charles ! thine ending flings 
Its shadow o'er a line of kings ; 

And all thy errors — hapless dead ! 

Have fallen with thy severed head. 

THIRD. 
XVII. 

Upon a golden jewelled throne, 

King Solomon, the wise. 

Decides a mother's sacred claim 

Before astonished eyes. 

That mother, proved by cunning test, 

Receives her infant to her breast. 

XVIII. 

Again a change comes o'er my dream, 

A horseman spurs his steed 
Across a bright historic stream, 

With eager, fiery speed. 



A NOON-DAY DREAM. 

All doubt is o'er, the die is cast, 
CiESAR, the Rubicon has passsd. 

XIX. 

The gallant Cortez, too, is here, 
With bright uplifted sword ; 

The first blade drawn in Mexico, 
In honor of God's word : 

Here bloody stains to nations tell 
The spot where Montezuma fell. 

XX. 

William of Prussia passes now, 
His warriors brave and bold : 

With fearless grace are gathered there, 
In marble white and cold. 

A martial, kingly band, they ride 

Close by their royal leader's side. 

XXI. 

Another regal group I see, 

In ghostly, marble guise ; 
'T is thus they come, each in his turn 

The simple and the wise. 



112 A NOON-DAY DREAM. 

The Fourteenth Louis of French kings, 
His tribute to the pageant brings. 

XXII. 

Across the brilliant, broken waves, 

Bright flashing, far and wide. 
The Adriatic grandly comes 

To claim his fair Sea Bride, 
And bending low the water king. 
Bestows the precious marriage ring. 

XXIII. 

In peace beneath the branching trees, 

A praying man is found ; 
While dark and dusky faces near 

In silence gather round. 
'T is William Penn who holds them there, 
Spell-bound by simple Christian prayer. 

XXIV. 

Then England's proudest, greatest Queen 

Her armies to inflame 
With valor, at Tilbury Fort, 

Among them bravely came. 



A NOON-DAY DREAM. II3 

And every voice was raised to bless 
The dauntless spirit of Queen Bess. 
This dream that was not quite a dream, 

Upon my vision broke. 
It passed, and from the sleeping world 

Reluctantly I woke ; 
Then closed my eyes and tried in vain 

To call this glory back again. 



BROKEN AT LAST. 



You may gather the fragments up 
Of the heart you have broken at last, 

Not all your tears in a thousand years, 
Could ever undo the past. 

As easily could your hand 

To the dull dark night restore 
The light that dies in the flaming skies, 
When the day's last blush is o*er. 

Or back to the riven rose 

Recall its past perfume, 
When the leaves are dead, and its drooping head 

Falls into an early tomb. 

I gave you the first, fresh love 

My girlish bosom knew. 
In life's sweet spring I crowned you king, 

With homage deep and true. 
114 



BROKEN AT LAST. II5 

You have laid my loyal heart, 

Beneath your stately tread, 
Till its love is crushed and its wailing hushed 

In the halls of the silent dead. 

I have wept in my lonely hours 

Hot tears that were all in vain ; 
Now the fount is dry and I know that I 

Shall never weep thus again. 

The pulse of love you seek 

To stir in my heart is stilled. 
You may find a place for the broken vase, 

But the precious wine is spilled. 



LINES 

ADDRESSED TO THE MEDICAL ASSOCIATION OF 
TEXAS. 



Read at the banquet at Tremont Hotel, Galveston, on 
Thursday evening, April 5, 1877. 

My harp trembles under my fingers to-night, 
As vainly I sweep o'er each quivering string ; 

The spirit of music has taken its flight, 

And worthless indeed is the tribute I bring. 

Though hushed into silence too deep to awake. 
The notes that I fain would arouse for my song, 

My slumbering muse, in its dreaming may break 
The fetters that seem so relentless and strong. 

My woman's heart offers this tremulous strain. 
Of praise to the holiest power on earth — 

The power of healing, and conquering pain, 

And banishing death from the home and the 

hearth. 

116 



LINES. 117 

Our doors open wide to the ever true friend 

Who stands close beside us in sickness and woe ; 

Through the desolate days and the nights as we 
bend, 
Above the faint pulse that is flickering low. 

How we watch every look that comes over his face, 
When his hand touches softly the feverish brow ; 

So eagerly there have we striven to trace 
The hope that was dying within us just now. 

'T was he who stood by in that terrible hour 

Of anguish that gave to our baby its breath ; 
How we leaned on his strength and relied on his 
power, 
When motherhood struggled so fiercely with 
death. 

His life is a volume of merciful deeds, 
A mission of holiness sacredly brave; 

Wherever humanity's suffering pleads — 

He is first at the cradle and last at the grave. 

In the halls of the rich, in the huts of the poor ; 
Those heaven-sent heroes come steady and true. 



Il8 LINES. 

In the fever-steeped cell through the pestilent door, 
To the task that no other has courage to do. 

We bend with a reverence holy and deep, 

Before the white shrine of the great healing art, 

Whose ministers hold, and forever shall keep, 

The best place in our home^ and first place in our 

heart. 



A WIFE'S VALENTINE. 



TO MY HUSBAND, D. M CALEB. 

My husband, my idol, my far-away king, 

The dearest, best half of myself, I would bring 

Sweet thoughts of our love, fragrant, holy, and 

bright, 
To thrill through your heart on Saint Valentine's 

night. 
The thunder is rolling athwart a black sky, 
No star-gleam is seen in the darkness on high ; 
The rain pours in torrents, the wind moans around 
The eaves of the house, with a desolate sound. 
And the heart in my bosom is freighted with tears. 
While thinking, my love, of our earlier years. 

I sit all alone in the glow of the fire ; 
The breath of the past, lightly touches my lyre, 
And over it softly a memory flings 
That thrills into music the long silent strings. 

119 



I20 A WIFE S VALENTINE. 

I listen, and fancy again I can see 
The deep shaded woods and the old beechen tree, 
With its emerald arms stretching up to the sky, 
Spreading out o'er the brook that goes murmuring 

by. 
As though it were singing the pebbles to rest 
That are lying so white in its crystalline breast. 

I love the old tree, and the wood, and the stream 
So hallowed and sacred to love's early dream. 
Upon the smooth bark a sweet record you traced 
That Time's busy fingers have never effaced — 
Your name and my own with the date of the year 
Each letter remains there distinctly and clear. 
Friends smiled at the plighting of children, but we 
Have kept the vows made by the old beechen tree. 
Years later, I stood there again at your side, 
And watched you engraving the name of your 

bride. 
You said with a smile, as you gave me a kiss : 
'' The old name is not half so pretty as this." 

Looking back through the evergreen vista of years 
How vividly each recollection appears ; 



A WIFE S VALENTINE. 121 

Tinted over with happiness, softly the glow, 
Pure pearls in the heart of the long, long-ago. 
Our childhood — how closely beside me it stands, 
How firmly the past and the present clasp hands. 
As memory's pencil is sketching the scene ; 
Thought bridges the years that are lying between. 
But over the picture a shadow is thrown, 
That mars its wild beauty — I sit here alone. 
As one stricken suddenly blind craves the light, 
My very soul longs for your presence to-night. 
To lay my head down on your breast as of old. 
And feel close around me your loving arms fold — 
Just now, I would give many years of my life 
To hear your voice whisper : ^* My darling, my 
wife." 

The little ones kneeling to-night at my knee, 
Asked God up in heaven that papa might be 
Kept safe from all harm in his far-away home. 
And that soon, very soon, he would bid us to come. 
My forehead was bowed on our boy's shining hair. 
When I lifted my brow there were tears lying 

there ; 
They come to my lashes whenever I pray 
For you, my dear husband, so far, far away. 



122 A WIFE S VALENTINE. 

Then sweet childish lips kissed good-night to 

mamma, 
Repeating the loving caress for papa. 
In calm, quiet slumber, warm, rosy and bright. 
Two little heads lie on our pillow to-night. 
The boy's coral lips, parted over white pearls, 
His breath stirring softly his sister's bright curls. 
That cluster in tiny, moist rings on her brow ; 
Her white dimpled hands are tossed over them 

now, 
And clasped are the fingers so waxen and fair. 
Like lily leaves pressed in the gold of her hair. 

A fair, lovely picture, in colors, divine. 

Whose framework, my darling, is your heart and 

mind. 
Thank God ! for these bright, rosy children of 

ours, 
They breathe over life the soft fragrance of flowers, 
Embalming the pathway that leads up to God, 
The sweet holy ground the Redeemer hath trod. 
My dearest, the hour of midnight has passed, 
The plaint of the wind has grown quiet at last — 
Good-night ! and with kisses I cover each line, 
My lover, my husband, my true Valentine. 



TO LAURA BURDEN. 



It brings to my heart all the past, Laura, 

To look in your dear eyes again ; 
The pleasures that never can last, Laura, 

The youth that we cling to in vain. 
The school-days so far, far away, Laura, 

The tasks we have learned side by side, 
The joys that we knew in that day, Laura, 

Have drifted away with the tide. 

How well I remember the years, Laura, 

We passed in the old '' college hall,'* 
And look back through the fast-falling tears, Laura, 

On the days we can never recall. 
The bright sunny days that we knew, Laura, 

With never a shadow of woe ; 
When the world seemed so fair and so true, Laura, 

Alas ! that was long, long ago. 

Your cheek, once so rounded and fair, Laura, 
So pallid and altered to-day ; 
123 



124 TO LAURA DURDEN. 

And silver is streaking the hair, Laura, 
That I brush from your temple away. 

I know 't is not time that has thrown, Laura, 
The moonlight of age on your hair ; 

Your heart, all too early, has known, Laura, 
The wearisome burden of care. 

The fortune that sadly has changed, Laura, 

The losses your life has sustained — 
The five hundred friends now estranged, Laura, 

Where few, oh ! so few, have remained. 
But this is the way of the world, Laura, 

We know not what friendship is worth. 
Till Fortune her banner has furled, Laura, 

And Sorrow sits down at our hearth. 

Yet still in your eyes I can see, Laura, 

The light I can never forget ; 
And I know in your heart that for me, Laura, 

The old tender love lingers yet. 
And mine beats as warmly for you, Laura, 

As though we were both young again ; 
I was one of the many you knew, Laura, — 

I am one of the few who remain. 



IMPROMPTU BY THE SEA. 



I stand on the wave-washed shore, to-day, 
Watching the breakers for miles away ; 

Miles of a terribly raging sea, 

Tossing its waters so high and free. 
Madly and wildly surging along, 
Dancing and singing its warlike song ; 

Dashing its white arms to and fro ; 

Now fiercely grappling the undertow ; 
Then dragging its great skirts back again, 
And flapping them over its broad domain. 

Oh ! *t is a glorious sight for me, 

This angry, leaping, and boiling sea ; 
Filling my soul with a solemn hush, 
Hurling its foam with a mighty crush, 

As though 't were lashed with a whirling rod, 

Held in the hand of an angry God. 
Only the great and Almighty will. 
Can say to the awful waves : '^Be still." 

Just so are the waters of human life. 

Tossing forever in pain and strife. 
Only in heaven, all storms shall cease. 
Where Jesus of Nazareth gives us peace. 



125 



NEVER AGAIN. 



O give me a shining curl, my love, — 

A curl of your sunbright hair — 
A shimmering fold of its burnished gold, 

For my desolate heart to wear ! 

O give me the rose in your breast, my love, — 

The rose with its drooping leaves ; 
They are falling apart like the hopes of the heart, 

That, trusting in woman, believes ! 

O give me a glance from your eye, my love, — 

One glance with its olden light ; 
Let me look in your eyes, that are blue as the skies, 

Ere I leave you forever to-night ! 

O give me a touch of your hand, my love, — 

One touch of your hand, I pray. 
To cling to my own when the bliss I have known, 

Has vanished forever away ! 
126 



NEVER AGAIN. I27 

O give me a parting kiss, my love — 
One kiss from your warm red lips, 

To wear upon mine till my soul shall decline 
In the darkness of death's eclipse ! 

You have given me all these gifts, my love, 

To soften my passionate pain, 
But as long as you live you never can give 

Me, faith in a woman again. 



GENERAL HOOD'S LAST CHARGE * 



The twilight of life is beginning to fall, 

Death's shadows are creeping high up on the wall ; 

Eternity's waters are plashing 
So close I can hear the wild waves as they roar 
And sullenly break on the surf -beaten shore, 

Their silver spray over me dashing. 

The old camp is fading away from my view ; 
I hear the last stroke of life's beating tattoo, — 

The sound wears the muffle of sorrow. 
My campaigns are ended, my battles are o*er, 
My heroes will follow my lead never more, 

No roll-call shall break on my morrow. 

But now I am fighting them over again ; 
On fields that are gory, 'mid heaps of the slain, 
The enemy swiftly are flying ; 

* General Hood, of the Confederate Army, left his orphan 
children to the care and protection of his old Texas Brigade. 

128 



GENERAL HOODS LAST CHARGE. 1 29 

The shrieking of shell and the cannon's deep boom 
Are thundering still at the gate of the tomb, 
The rattle of grape-shot replying. 

But ah ! the last enemy conquers to-night, 
And death is the victor — in vain is the fight 

When God and his creature have striven ; 
The struggle is over ; life's colors are furled — 
Are lost in the dark of the vanishing world ; 

The bonds of the spirit are riven. 

But ere I go down 'neath the conqueror's tread, 
And lie white and still in the ranks of the dead 

Through silence forever unbroken, 
To you, my old heroes, my Texas Brigade, 
From the dimness of death, from the cold of its 
shade. 

One last solemn charge must be spoken : 

*' My faithful old followers, steady and true, 
My children are orphans, — I give them to you, 

A trust for your sacredest keeping. 
By the shades of the heroes who fought at your side. 
By the few who have lived, and the many v/ho died. 

By the brave army silently sleeping. 



130 GENERAL HOOD S LAST CHARGE. 

^^ By the charges I led, where you followed so true, 
When the soldiers in gray and the soldiers in blue, 

And the blood of the bravest was flowing. 
Be true to this last and this holiest trust, 
Tho' the heart of your leader has crumbled to dust. 

And grasses above him are growing." 



DEAD FACES. 



I sit in my cottage home dreaming 

Alone in the light of the fire, 
Sweet memory music is thrilling 

The half-broken strings of my lyre. 
No effort I make to awaken 

The soft muffled notes that I hear, 
They steal through my heart like the cadence 

Of water when fountains are near. 

The flickering fire-light falling. 

So weirdly bright on the floor. 
Calls up from the shadowy by-gone 

The years I have lost evermore. 
The faces of friends that are scattered, 

Like autumn leaves whirled on the blast, 
To-night are all smiling about me, 

Pale shades of a sepulchred past. 

Fair forms still unfaded by sorrow, 
Untouched by the pencil of years ; 
131 



132 DEAD FACES. 

Eyes bright with the old happy lustre, 
Not knowing the dimness of tears. 

Lips trembling apart in the sweetness 
Of earliest blossoming youth, 

Before they had tarnished the brightness 
That lies on the jewel of truth. 

They glide through the shimmering glories 

That fall from the heart of the fire, 
And touch with their shadowy fingers 

The strings of my quivering lyre. 
Old songs break into the silence 

From lips that have paled in death, 
And gushes of silvery laughter 

Float over the twilight's breath. 

Sweet memories unforgotten 

On the foaming tide waves tossed. 
Fling up from the murmuring waters, 

The jewels my heart has lost. 
The faces of three little children. 

Shine out from the deepening gloom, 
And the ringing of childish voices 

I hear in the silent room. 



DEAD FACES. I33 

There, farther back in the shadows, 

The little ones close to his knee, 
My dear old father is sitting, 

And smiling to-night on me. 
Thank God ! I have never quite lost them ; 
^ These precious, dead darlings of mine ; 
They come to me often, and often — 

A presence unearthly divine. 

They fill all my being with sweetness, 

With radiant, roseate bloom ; 
They sweep from the grave all its darkness, 

And clothe with their beauty the tomb. 
In the hush of the unlighted hours 

That come when the sunshine has fled. 
I turn to these dear, loving faces, 

Half dreaming they can not be dead. 



TREASURED TOKENS. 



I opened my darling's trunk to-day, 
Where all of her dresses are laid away ; 
The little blue robe of soft delaine, 
With its bands of white, brought back again 
My own litttle girl, so full of glee, 
Standing, impatient, beside my knee. 
Teasing and coaxing, with sweet caress. 
For Mamma to finish her " petty boo dess/' 

The little bronze boot she wore that day 
Has two of the buttons quite torn away ; 
One tiny glove of the brightest blue 
Is lying beside the half-worn shoe — 
How well I remember the sunny day 
She lost the other while out at play ; 
This little white bonnet with fluted frill — 
Her sweet blue eyes seem peeping still 

From under the ruffle in childish glee, 
Always laughing, happy, and free ; 
134 



TREASURED TOKENS. I35 

The soft curls clinging about her brow 
Are wearing a colder covering now, — 
Are lying in deeper and sadder shade 
Than ever a little white bonnet has made. 
A scarlet moth-eaten worsted ball, 
The head of a quaint old rubber doll. 

A broken cup, with a rim of blue ; 
A saucer, tarnished and broken too ; 
A faded ribbon, a small white shell. 
Have each a tale of her life to tell. 
The earth is cold and the grave is deep, 
And my baby lies there fast asleep. 
Never to break from her dreamless rest. 
Nor waken again upon my breast. 

Never to open her sweet blue eyes 
This side of the gates of Paradise 
And I kneel here on the chamber floor 
And tearfully gaze on the clothes she wore ; 
Softly kissing the little worn shoe, 
Tenderly touching the ribbons of blue ; 
Till time and place and the drifted years 
Are swept aside in a storm of tears. 



THESE LITTLE ONES. 



Written in behalf of the Orphans of St. Mary's Asylum, 
Galveston, Texas. 

Fond mothers, who hold to your bosom to-night, 
Your bright, dimpled cherubs so tenderly dear ; 

As you smooth the bright curls from the forehead 
so white, 
And look in those eyes so bewitchingly clear, 

Have you never a thought for the little ones left 
Alone in a world that is drearily cold ? 

Of motherly tenderness sadly bereft, 

Like shivering lambs far away from the fold ? 

Have you never a wish in your innermost heart 
To gather these little ones close to your breast. 

From the wealth of your plenty to spare them a part 
That angels may whisper your name to the blest, 

In robes that are costly and daintily rare. 
You look on your children with motherly pride — 
136 



THESE LITTLE ONES. 1 37 

Oh! womanly heart, have you nothing to spare 
For the poor little ragged one standing aside ? 

Standing aside in his stockingless feet, 
Watching these happier children go by ; 

Lingering there in the dust of the street 
With a quivering lip and a tear in his eye. 

But God and the angels are hovering near ; 

They look on his poverty, see all your pride — 
They weigh in the balance each passionate tear 

That falls all unheeded so close to your side. 

Then pity these lonely ones shorn of the love 
That only a mother's heart ever can give ; 

The cup from your hand is recorded above 
In letters whose brightness forever shall live. 

Uphold the brave " Sisters," who daily deny 
Their hearts every tie that a woman holds dear. 

With never a murmur and never a sigh, 
To shelter these little ones tenderly here. 

But Poverty lies like a blight on their door. 
And Want lays upon them her skeleton hand; 

To you who are rich we appeal for the poor. 
For the motherless ones of our glorious land. 



THE BISHOP'S WELCOME. 



The following poem was read by Right Rev. F. X. Leray, 
of New Orleans, at the banquet given last Sunday in honor of 
Bishop Gallagher, in Galveston, Texas. 

Tall arches rise in solemn pride 

Before the great Cathedral door, 
And flowery garlands softly fling 
Their fragrance out, and sway and swing 
Above the tessellated floor. 

Within the grand, majestic nave 

The rarest roses bloom the while ; 
And lilies, pure as virgin snow, 
Bend down their spotless heads, and blow 
Their breath across the tinted aisle. 

Bright wreaths of every shade and hue 

About each stately column twine ; 
Along the lofty pictured wall, 
Where solemn shadows play and fall. 

Bright, beaming emblems glint and shine. 
138 



THE BISHOP S WELCOME. I39 

Sweet crimson-tinted rose-buds droop — 
Their petals scarcely cleft apart, — 

And from their half-unfolded bloom 

They steep in subtle, soft perfume 
The altar of the Sacred Heart. 

About another altar these, 

The lilies, roses, all combine 
To lend their beauty and their grace, 
And all their richest glories place 

Upon our Virgin Lady's shrine. 

And here as ever bended heads 
The blossom-laden breezes sweep ; 

With trembling hearts and tear-wet eyes. 

We think of one who silent lies 
Beneath us in his dreamless sleep. 

Dear Father Chambodnt ! his loss 
Is still so fresh and full of pain — 

His vacant place, his empty chair, 

That marble tablet lying there, 
All bring his memory back again. 

Around the great, grand altar bloom 
A thousand countless flowers rare ; 



140 THE BISHOP S WELCOME. 

The solemn chant, the swinging bell, 
And rising purple incense tell 

Of that Great Presence dwelling there. 

And wherefore all this roseate bloom, 

These floral wreaths, this grand display ? 
It is to welcome one who comes 
An honored guest to heart and homes, 
We twine these fragrant flowers to-day. 

In love and purity we come 

To give him welcome warm and true ; 
The flowers of Faith and Hope are rare ; 
We offer them in fervent prayer, 

Bright with the heart's own crystal dew. 

With God's own seal upon his brow, 

A people's love laid at his feet. 
In fullest hope and fearless trust, 
Undimmed by any doubting, must 

Be welcome, rare, and strangely sweet. 

Galveston, April 30, 1882. 



ACROSTIC. 



SENT WITH A BOUQUET TO A FRIEND. 

L — et these little flowers, dear, 
O — 'er thy heart a fragrance send, 
L — eaving sweetness everywhere, 
A — nd remembrance of your friend. 



141 



CARRIER'S ADDRESS. 



FOR A VICKSBURG PAPER, 1875. 

Another year has closed upon 

This half-distracted nation ; 
We look around and view with pain 

Our fearful situation. 
Hard times knock loudly at each door ; 

While men who pay the taxes 
Turn with their bleeding hands the stone 

For rogues to grind their axes. 

High-handed villainy is dressed 

In ermine robes judicial ; 
And what was termed disgraceful once 

Is simply, now, ^'official.'* 
The sweat is wrung from honest brows 

To fill the rascal's pocket ; 
And juries packed by bondless men 

To clear the felon's docket, 
149 



CARRIER S ADDRESS. 143 

The people rise up in their might, 

Firm in their deep vexation, 
Unarmed call on the Sheriff for 

Good bonds or resignation. 
This was their right, — their legal right, — 

No one will dare deny it ; 
And almost hopeless, as they were, 

They still resolved to try it. 

We said they went unarmed, this host 

Of prudent, cool chastisers ; 
But we admit they thought to use 

A board called '^ Supervisors." 
This board was old and somewhat frail ; 

A fact, they had forgotten 
'T was almost black — perhaps with age — - * 

In truth, they found it rotten. 

Ere they could seize and try its strength, — 

Oh ! wonder never ceases ! — 
Or strike with it one sturdy blow. 

The whole thing went to pieces. 
So far it flew, both East and West, 

Upon the winds of winter. 



144 CARRIER S ADDRESS. 

These gallant men stood all aghast, 
They could not find a splinter. 

In times like these, when truth is dead 

And virtue written non est, 
'T is said the very best of men 

Have Ames to be dishonest. 
The bondless Sheriff did resign, 

But vowed to take it back soon ; 
Indeed he went on special train 

That very night to Jackson. 

The Governor arose at once, 

Waived all examination 
Of facts, and hurled in hottest haste 

His lying proclamation. 
It fell, like burning brand on hay. 

Among the county niggers y 
Whose passions are as quick to fire 

As guns with easy triggers. 

Their Sheriff, too, had called, and they 
Rushed to the city's border. 

Equipped with all the weapons known, 
Except with law and order. 



CARRIER S ADDRESS. 145 

They came, these poor deluded ones, 
By hundreds — more 's the pity — 

The City Sexton took in those 
Who came to take the city. 

We fought the fight with smaller arms, 

Nor had much use for cannon ; 
Although the foe made quite a run 

Upon the banks of Shannon. 
The Miller took his toll, they say, 

In quite a large proportion ; 
Indeed we hear it whispered that 

'T was almost called extortion. 

On one road leading into town. 

The darkies who appeared there 
Were much enraged to find themselves 

Well shaken by the Beaird there. 
Some of these weak, misguided men. 

Of strong, unbridled passions. 
Were much in-KLEiN-ed to plead that they 

Were coming in for rations. 

While one who wore across his breast 
A strip of ragged bunting, 



146 carrier's address. 

Declared he only '* fotch his gun/' 
In case he mought go HuNT-ing. 

These Warren County colored men, 
With all their lively Capers, 

Have got their history written up 
In many leading papers. 

The Cros(s)-by which we have been tried 

Has been a long and sad one ; 
The Hill of justice we would climb 

Experience proves a bad one. 
Our Governor is sore perplexed. 

With no friend to advise him ; 
And while he runs a loyal League, 

A Furlong sorely tries him. 

We do not think that he should be 

So bitterly berated. 
Because the " so-called '' Adelbert 

Is simply addle-pated. 
No man of mind would work as he 

Has done to harvest trouble ; 
Or choose, from all the better grain, 

A Ded-rick of the stubble. 



CARRIER S ADDRESS. 147 

He Stretches every point of law 

Beyond a lawyer's knowing ; 
By George ! he does things up so Brown, 

A white man has no showing. 
He sets his little head one side, 

And after sage reflection, 
Declares that all this blood has flowed 

Straight from our last election. 

It was a legal battle then, 

All fair, and square, and quiet ; 
But now, our Governor asserts, 

It hatched out all this riot. 
Though he is fond of using gas 

With slight consideration. 
This time his Hall was much too dark 

For clear elucidation. 



The end perhaps is not just yet. 
But we are firm to meet it ; 

And if one lesson fails to teach 
The truth, we can repeat it. 

We have an Arm-strong to defend 
The Wright, with just endeavor ; 



148 carrier's address. 

And money, too, if need should be, 
Our Cash-mAn is so clever. 



Our city only held its own, 

When foes crept up behind it ; 
And should they seek to come again, 

A Hard-away they '11 find it. 
And so we Ve done the best we could 

To give you all the news, sirs ; 
Let every man of us unite 

To keep away the Blues, sirs. 



TO MOLLIE BROWN. 



ON HER SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY. 

Sixteen ! that sweet, poetic age, 

On which we love to dwell ; 
It throws around a maiden's heart 

A soft and witching spell. 
'T is as the early morning dew 

Upon a rose-bud thrown — 
*T is as that rose-bud's timid blush 

Before 't is fully blown. 

Thy young heart now is bright and gay, 

'T is free from every care ; 
And all the flowers of youthful joy 

Bloom fresh and fragrant there. 
The radiant light of girlish hope 

Beams sweetly from thine eye, 
As brightly as a star that gems 

The summer twilight sky. 
149 



150 TO MOLLIE BROWN. 

The past for thee has all been fair, 

No cloud its beauty mars ; 
The sky that still above thee bends 

Is bright with countless stars. 
But none can lift the veil that hides 

The future from our sight, 
Or tell how soon dark clouds may dim 

The hopes that now are bright. 

But if the prayer that friendship breathes 

Can win bright joys for thee, 
From every cloud of grief or care 

Thy future shall be free. 
And when the silver crown of age 

Upon thy brow is seen, 
Thy heart shall throb as lightly then 

As now at " sweet sixteen.'* 

And when thy earthly joys are past, — 

When death for thee shall come, 
May sister-spirits from on high 

Convey thee gently home. 
Oh, may they bear thee swiftly then 

To God's bright throne above, 
Where thou wilt find eternal rest 

In his undying love ! 



INTROSPECTION. 



Is it a crime that I love him, 

A sin that I think of him still, 
A shame if his image still haunts me 

Forever against my will ? 
God knows I have tried to forget him, 

Have struggled to turn from the past^ 
But it seems that the spell of his spirit 

About all my being is cast. 

A spell that I never have broken — 

Try ever so hard as I may ; — 
They told me I soon would forget him, 

God help me ! I love him to-day. 
And yet it is years since we parted, 

That far away evening in spring ; 
Long years since I gave him his letters 

And took from my finger his ring. 

I had wept as I knelt to my father 
And pled for my lover that day ; 
151 



152 INTROSPECTION. 

But coldly he said, as he left me, 
A daughter of his should obey. 

That evening at twilight we parted ; 
My life caught the tinge of its gray, 

The sunshine went from me forever, 
The shadow lies on me to-day. 

Years passed and I wedded to please them, 

As many a daughter will do — 
With one who had loved me in childhood, 

A man who was noble and true. 
For years we have lived on together, 

And children hang round on my chair: 
A boy with dark eyes like his mother, 

A girl with her father's bright hair. 

But oft when the sunlight has faded. 

And shadows creep over the sky, 
I dream of the love that was buried 

But never, no never, could die. 
It lies like a shrouded immortelle. 

Craped over with snowy regret ; 
And though it shall never awaken, 

I know I can never forget. 



THE BROKEN HARP. 



They tell me that I sing no more 

As once I sung in olden time ; 
That broken is the harp of yore, 

And vanished are its notes sublime. 
Ah ! could they read within my soul 

The saddened numbers swelling there, 
The bitter pangs that spurn control 

And fill my being with despair, 
They would not wonder that my harp 

Lies broken now beneath my feet, 
Or that my grief should render sharp 

The notes that once were low and sweet„ 

But, ah ! the world may never sweep 
The chords that thrill within my heart ; 

Its music lies too still and deep ; 
It slumbers, but can ne'er depart. 

Could I but dip a magic quill 
In sources of Promethean fire, 
153 



154 THE BROKEN HARP. 

Then would I weave a burning thrill 
In every touch I gave my lyre. 

But now around its broken strings 
There linger only notes of woe ; 

My hand no longer from it brings 
The music of the long ago. 

I once at pleasure's altar knelt — 

Yes, knelt, and drank its richest wine ; 
For then my heart had never felt 

The shadow of a darker shrine. 
I ne'er had known the maddening power 

Of love ; my soul was then at rest ; 
My heart was like a budding flower 

That nursed a sunbeam in its breast, 
But now — alas ! that clouds should rise, 

Should darken-o'er so fair a sky. 
Should fill a gladsome heart with sighs. 

That once knew naught of tear or sigh. 

I loved ! there knelt before my shrine 
A being I was proud to win. 

Whose brow wore every seal divine — 
The stamp of virtue shrined within. 



THE BROKEN HARP. 155 

We wedded — words grow weak and faint 

To color scenes so wildly bright ; 
Dark pictures, art can always paint, — 

Who can portray a ray of light ? 
But swiftly fled the dream of joy. 

And sad is its deserted throne ; 
Fate came, alas ! to blight — destroy ; — • 

We parted — I was left alone. 

Yes, parted, that my love might lay 

Devotion on his country's shrine ; 
While troubled shadows darkly play 

Around this lonely heart of mine. 
To think of moments past and bright 

But makes the sadness deeper now ; 
*T is like the morning's robe of light 

Beside the midnight's sable brow. 
Then wonder not that I no more 

My harp in rapture wildly sweep ; 
The joy that woke its notes before 

Now slumbers in a dreamless sleep. 



TO 



Oh, believe not the tale that is whispered to thee, 
By those who would link with deception my 
name ; 

Through darkness and trial my soul is still free, 
My heart, thought, and impulses still are the same. 

Untrue to my country ! oh, never, no never ! 

Can fate cast a shadow o' er the love that o* er- 
flows 
And burns for the South in my bosom forever 

As pure as the dew-drop that kisses the rose. 

Though the old flag of Union now floats overhead ; 
Though 1 bow to the stroke that I could not 
forego, 



* These lines were addressed to a frie^^d in reply to a letter, 
in which he stated that a rumor obtained* to the effect, that the 
author was participating in scenes of i-^stivity and mirth, ac- 
companied by Federal officers. 

156 



TO . 157 

No eye, in my own, ever truthfully read 

That I could forget, and be gay with the foe. 



'T is true that, as conquerors, many have proved 
All courteous, kind, and respectful to me ; 

Yet still they have robbed me of all that I loved ; 
My heart is against them, and must ever be. 



But there comes a voice from a tent in the wild 
wood: 
"Why have you, among them, your destiny 
thrown ? " 
I answer you, dear cherished friend of my child- 
hood, 
I have in dear " Dixie '* no home of my own. 



Fate rules with a rod that the Medes and the Per 
sians 
Would tremble to see raised above them in 
wrath ; 
No piteous plea, no attempted diversion, 
Avail us when duty shapes for us our path. 



iS8 TO . 

Though my heart, as a captive, conceals its emo- 
tion, 

Believe me, it never has varied its tone ; 
The chords that vibrate to the deepest devotion, 

Are swept by the hand of my country alone. 

Go, ask of the Northmen who came to my home, 
If I to my country could treacherous prove ; 

Go, ask them if I, for the wealth of a crown. 
Would ever desert the bright land that I love. 

Oh, give me my country, in weal or in woe. 
In sorrow or gladness, in mourning or mirth ; 

Though chained to the earth by a powerful foe, 
She still is my country — the land of my birth. 

By all that is holy, celestial, and good ; 

By every heart-rending and agonized thrill ; 
Though her star of freedom should set in her blood, 

My true heart would cling to her faithfully still. 

Yes, faithfully cling, with a love never spoken 
To idols it cherished in earliest youth ; 

When Liberty's temple, unshaken, unbroken. 
Stood proudly erect in the land of the South. 



A PRAYER. 



FOR MY FRIEND, MAJOR W. C. CAPERS. 

'T is on the eve of battle now, 

The God of war with shadowed brow, 

Each soldier calls to keep his vow — 

Then strengthen them, our Father ! 

Among them moves a manly form, 
Whose heart is throbbing true and warm 
He, fearless, marks the coming storm — 
Oh ! be his shield, our Father ! 

When 'mid the fast-approaching strife. 
Where every gale with death is rife. 
He, for his country, risks his life. 

Oh ! guard him then, our Father ! 

Though 'neath the missiles of the foe 
His comrades be in death laid low, 
159 



l6o A PRAYER. 

Oh ! turn from him each fatal blow — 
Save, save him then, our Father ! 

My God, upon my bended knee, 
My friend I now commit to thee ; 
Oh ! wreathe his sword with victory. 
And grant him life, our Father ! 

Then when the deadly strife is o'er. 
And loved ones meet on freedom's shore, 
Thine be the praise forever more, 

Throughout all time, our Father ! 



IMPROMPTU TO 



Farewell ! and in absence remember me still ; 

Forget not the chain that is clinging around us, 
Whose links, let us wander wherever we will. 

In fadeless affection forever hath bound us. 

Though now we must part, and it may be forever, 
" Our past," with its beauty, we ne'er can forget ; 

'T is not in the power of absence to sever 
The memory chain that will fetter us yet. 

No ! fadeless and lovely it still shall entwine 

Our hearts, like the rainbow that arches the 
cloud ; 
Though far from each other, 't is still thine and 
mine, 
'T will beam on thy bier, and encircle my shroud. 



i6i 



LITTLE JOSIE. 



Little jewel, gone to heaven — 
Back to earth the casket given — 
Ties of nature rudely riven 
By the chilling hand of death. 

Little angel, singing gladly, 
Tears of anguish flowing madly, 
Footsteps falling softly, sadly, 
Round a tiny little grave. 

Back again in sorrow slowly, 
From the little mound so lowly, 
To the room now sacred, holy, 
Where poor little Josie died. 

'T is a hard, a bitter trial, 
There to see the half-used vial. 
On the mantel, near the dial, 
Used for baby all in vain. 
162 



LITTLE JOSIE. 163 

Then each little toy we bought him — 
Little bucket brother brought him — 
Letters that his sister taught him, 
Scattered still about the room. 

On the morrow, gloomy faces, 
Where the tears have left their traces, 
Sadly take their 'customed places. 
Leaving now a vacant chair. 

While the thought each heart is stilling. 
Little Willie's eyes are filling, 
" I '11 sit here if papa 's willing, 
Josie 's gone to heaven now." ^ 

Yes, our darling lives in heaven. 
Only to his Maker given, 
Not one precious tie is riven, 
Ours still, but gone before. 

* These words were spoken by his little brother at the 
breakfast-table, the morninsr after the burial. 



TO MY HUSBAND. 



D. M CALEB. 

'T is midnight ; in the azure sky 

The sleepless stars " their vigils keep " ; 

But slumber flies my wakeful eye — 
I think, and dream, but cannot sleep. 

Yet each wild dream that wanders o'er 
This madly throbbing heart of mine, 

But seals the bond it wore before, 
And makes me dearly, doubly thine. 

Though absent, thou art with me still, 
No distance can divide us now, — 

The magic words '' wilt thou ? '' ''I will" 
Have bound us with a deathless vow. 

Yes, bound us with a silver chain 

That naught on earth may widely sever ; 
164 



TO MY HUSBAND. 165 

Those bright, immortal links, I fain 
Would wear around my heart forever. 

Would wear them till I seek my rest 
Beneath the pallid wing of death ; 

Then clasp them to my heaving breast, 
And kiss them ere I yield my breath. 



APPEAL TO PRESIDENT JOHNSON, IN 
BEHALF OF JEFFERSON DAVIS. 



Oh, pardon the captive ! his power has fled ; 
His banner lies low with his numberless dead, 

Never more to unfurl in its glory : 
Then spare but the life of the stricken old chief, 
Whose days, at the most, will be weary and brief, 

In a land that already is gory. 

His flower of manhood has faded and gone, 
Its leaves lie unheeded and withered alone, 

The tottering stem is decaying ; 
Then oh ! touch it not with a merciless hand, 
But heed the wild plea of a desolate land 

That now for its chieftain is praying. 

Yes, kneeling we pray, by the hopes that have flown, 
By all the wild anguish and woe we have known, 

By hearts that are bleeding and broken, 
By the shades of the heroes who sleep in their gore, 

i66 



APPEAL TO PRESIDENT JOHNSON. 167 

By the war-blackened homes that shall know them 
no more, 
We pray that his pardon be spoken. 

Oh, wildly and tearfully now we implore, 

The return of the chief who will lead us no more ; 

We ask but his freedom in dying ! 
Then talk not of "justice to fall on his head,'* 
But twine the white roses of mercy instead, 

Where thorns for so long have been lying. 

Say, has he not borne with the prison and chain, 
With martyr-like patience forborne to complain, 

Through sickness and solitude dreary ? 
Hushed the wail in his heart for the cause he has 

lost, 
Murmured not o'er the bier of the hopes that were 
crossed. 
Of a life rendered wretched and weary ? 

Ah ! did he not suffer enough in the hour 
That saw his cause sink, like a storm-stricken 
flower, 
His flag furled for ever and ever? 
The wife of his bosom sent far from his side, — 



l68 APPEAL TO PRESIDENT JOHNSON. 

His little ones floating on charity*s tide, 
And feel he could rescue them never ? 

Is this not enough ? Then turn to the past, 
Turn back to the deeds that forever will last, 

The record on Honor's bright portal ; 
The Union then rang with the now hated name, 
The statesman, the soldier, the darling of fame. 

The Davis, whose name is immortal. 

Then for what he has been, oh ! pardon him now ; 
When death-dews are gathering fast on his brow, 

List but to humanity's pleading ; 
And if he has erred — if his deeds were a crime, 
'T will but make thy mission nearer the sublime 

To bind up the heart that is bleeding. 

Then, when the death shadows shall darken thy 

soul, 
When o'er thee eternity's waters shall roll, 

Thus add to thy chaplet in heaven 
The leaves that are brightest and purest — the best 
That angels can weave in the land of the blest, 

For those who forgive are forgiven, 

ViCKSBURG, Miss., Oct, 30, 1866. 



ACROSTIC. 



INSCRIBED TO PRESIDENT GARFIELD. 

Gathered in greatness, ere his glory faded, 
A shining sun, snatched from meridian height- 
Rare, perfect soul, with every virtue laded, 
Flown like a flashing star, thro' realms of light. 
In every heart is felt the throb of sadness. 
Each bosom trembles to the pulse of pain. 
Lamenting this dark deed of crime or madness, 
Dyeing the nation with its crimson stain. 



169 



WAITING. 



Alone — still alone — all the gloomy day through, 

Wearily waiting and watching for you, 
Counting the hours that drearily go 
Back to the past with their burden of woe. 

Hushing the passionate wail of my heart, 

Crushing the tears that would bitterly start, 
Back to their fountain with resolute will. 
Striving to love you and trust in you still. 

The sun has gone down in the gold-tinted west, 
The last bird has folded his wing in his rest, 
The moon*s silver crescent is swinging on high, 
The stars have come out one by one in the sky, 
Yet still I am waiting and watching for you. 
With spirit unswerving, unchanging, and true ; 
Though lonely and darkly the hours have passed, 
I fain would adore you and trust to the last. 

What rival can win you away from your home. 
Where deepest devotion would woo you to come ! 

r70 



WAITING. 171 

The soft voice of pleasure and luxury's wile 
Methinks would grow pale in one welcoming 
smile. 
From the eyes of our boy, as he springs to your 

breast, 
His cheek against yours so caressingly pressed, 
His lips raining kisses on yours as they met 

them, — 
Two hearts here to worship you if you would let 
them. 

Oh ! force not the love that is thrillingly sweet 
To droop like a floweret and fade at your feet ; 
Affection can hold it in beauty erect, 
*T will die if 't is pressed by the hand of neglect. 
Then come to the heart that is wretched and lonely, 
Whose tenderest pulse beats for you, and you only ; 
I am weary, so weary of waiting alone. 
My spirit is yearning to welcome your own. 

Think, darling, of all the bright years of my life, 
Those first loving years when you cherished your 
wife, — 
The pleasures and sorrows we have known to- 
gether, — 
The two little graves lying close to each other, — 



172 WAITING. 

The bright rosy boy, who is last of the three 
Sweet children, that God gave to you and to me ; 
And by all the ties of the present and past, 
Oh ! let me still love you and trust to the last. 



A WITHERED FLOWER. 



A little withered, waxen flower, 

That tells its tale of woe, 
'T was taken from your folded hands, 

My darling, long ago. 

Among the treasures of my past. 

Enfolding bitter tears. 
This little token mutely looks 

Up from the grave of years. 

In scentless silence now it gives 
The dumb unspoken sign, 

That even through the gates of death 
Comes from your heart to mine. 

And shrouded memories start to life 
That long have buried lain. 

Awaking in my heart anew 
The throbbing pulse of pain. 
173 



174 A WITHERED FLOWER. 

Again I stand beside you, dear, 

Your chilling hands I hold, 
Again my kisses fall upon 

Your brow so damp and cold. 

Once more I feel the trembling clasp 

Your fingers gave to mine, 
And see the last, last beam of love. 

Beneath your lashes shine. 

These faded leaflets bring again 

Your dead face back to me. 
The darkened room, the quiet hands, 

The pale, still form I see. 

That first great shock of agony 

Seems folded in this flower. 
And all the bitter grief of time 

Condensed in that one hour. 

I lift the leaves with tender touch, 

And hot tears falling fast. 
The faint, sweet perfume seems to breathy 

A soft sigh from the past. 



A WITHERED FLOWER. 175 

This crumbling beauty holds for me 

The thrilling, painful power 
Of love, and death, and loneliness, 

Strong in this faded flower. 



MY BABY'S GODMOTHER. 

(mRS. E. O. C. m'iNERNEY, of GALVESTON.) 



Dear little Mother ! — in the holy name of God, 
Down the sweet paths of grace your sinless feet 

have trod, 
With God's love shining on you like the sun, 
By your example lead my darling little one. 

The worldly path his dimpled feet must enter in 
Is full of dark temptation and of mortal sin ; 
If by its pomp and shine his soul is over-awed. 
With ever-watchful prayer, oh ! guard my baby, 
Claude. 

If, ere his little life has lost its infant charms. 
Death rudely should unclasp his mother's clinging 

arms. 
If the eternal dawn, for me, is first to break, 
Then sometimes take my child, and kiss him for 

my sake. 

176 



MY BABY S GODMOTHER. l^^ 

Smooth back the silken hair that on his forehead 

lies, 
Look with a tender smile into his bright blue eyes, 
And while within your arms he leans upon your 

knee. 
Let something speak through him in memory of 

me. 

Galveston, June, 1884. 



THE PICTURE ON THE WALL. 



Just between the curtained. windows 
Where the shadows softly fall, 

Leaving there a touch of sadness, 
Hangs a picture on the wall — 

Our sainted father's picture, 
Hanging there upon the wall. 

And the curtains as they waver 
In the breeze, and half unfold. 

Letting sunlight on the picture. 
Lay a band of purest gold. 

Make the dear eyes beam upon us — 
Beam and sparkle as of old. 

Softly on the noble forehead 
Lies the shining silver hair, 

As though the light of heaven had 
A moment rested there — 

Like a gleaming saintly halo. 
Just an instant lingered there, 
178 



THE PICTURE ON THE WALL. 179 

But the hot and bitter tear-drops 
From our orphaned hearts arise, 

When the picture looks upon us 
With such tender, loving eyes — 

For Death has laid his fingers 
Coldly on those loving eyes. 

How we linger there before it 

As our tears in silence fall, 
While the curtains waver sadly, 

And the shadows, like a pall. 
Fall about our father's picture 

As it hangs upon the wall. 



A JESSAMINE FLOWER. 



INSCRIBED TO MY SISTER ^SlADGE. 



Only a soft, white jessamine flower 
With its pressed leaves pale and fair, 

Bringing to me from my dear old home 
A breath of its fragrant air. 

It comes like the touch of a spirit hand 

Bathing my heart in its bloom, 
Rousing the memories laid to rest 

In their coldly quiet tomb. 

Ah ! well I remember the spot where it grew, 

And opened its petals of snow — 
'T is draping and wreathing the white column still. 

As it did in the days long ago. 

I stood in its shade on that clear June night. 
With its white flowers blooming above ; 

My young heart aglow in my cheeks as it played 
The first fairy prelude of love. 
i8o 



A JESSAMINE FLOWER. l8l 

The years glided on, .death came to our home — 
Floated in on the Jessamine's breath ; 

Its pale blossoms lay in sweet baby hands 
That were folded forever in death. 

The same starry blooms lightly clung in the curls 
That fell o'er my darling's dead brow, 

And my tears are like rain on the jessamine leaves^ 
Whenever I look on them now. 

Frail, beautiful messenger, fresh from the spot 

So dear to my earlier years ; 
You have opened the door of a temple to-night 

That gives you baptism in tears. 



TO 



come to me in dreams, love ; smile on me once 

again ; 
My heart is busy with its grief, my soul enwrapped 
in woe ; 

1 little thought in early days to know so much of 

pain ; 
Life seemed a silver rivulet, so brightly did it 
flow. 
Turn back the foaming tide, love, this once turn 
back its waves. 
My spirit yearns so sadly now to travel o'er the 
past ; 
My tears are falling silently above its many graves, 
Where all the freshness of my soul has been for- 
ever cast. 

Those bright enchanted hours, when we knelt at 
pleasure's shrine, 
And tasted first the rosy draught that angel hands 

prepare ; 

182 



TO . 183 

How eagerly we grasped the cup of Love's own 
ruby wine, 
Nor dreamed that aught of bitterness could lie 
in ambush there ! 
'T is years since we have met, love ; long, dreary, 
hopeless years 
Have cast their gloomy, cheerless pall above the 
bliss we knev/. 
Some hours I have passed in joy, but more in 
fruitless tears, 
Still kneeling at the shattered shrine w^here once 
I knelt with you. 



I know 't is all in vain now, to mourn the days gone 
by; 
To linger even in a dream about the olden joy ; 
For memory, with a cruel hand and cold, unerring 
eye, 
Still seeks and gathers up the links 't were mercy 
to destroy. 
Go where I may, your face, love, still haunts me 
like a dream : 
It rises spirit-like when I am bowed in silent 
prayer ; 



184 'TO — . 

'T is printed on each tinted flower, 't is mirrored on 
the stream. 
Your voice is ever murmuring reproaches on the 
air. 

Upbraidings for that bitter time when I, in angry- 
pride, 
Threw back upon your breaking heart its faith, 
and love, and trust ; 
When at my feet they trembled once in agony and 
died. 
And all your dearest, brightest hopes lay crum- 
bling into dust. 
But, by the anguish I have known since that un- 
happy hour, 
By all the dreaded years to come while we apart 
must live, 
By all the glory of our love in its supremest power, 
And by its deathless memory, I know you will 
forgive. 



AT TWILIGHT. 



The room is peopled with visions 

That fill me with sadness and pain, 
For I know that my past happy hours 

Can never come to me again. 
My eyes are aweary of weeping, 

My soul is prophetic of gloom, 
My being is filled with a sadness 

That whispers of death and the tomb. 

For myself, I would care not to linger 

Where every thing breathes of despair ; 
The grave has no bitterness for me. 

No sorrow could torture me there. 
How peacefully in its cold bosom 

Would slumber my grief-burdened head !- 
But what would become of my darling. 

My boy, if his mother were dead ? 

My beautiful boy, in his childhood 
Who never has known a harsh tone, 

185 



l86 AT TWILIGHT. 

Would miss the deep love that I bear him 
If left in this bleak world alone. 

For him I could still bear my burdens, 
For him would brave misery's sting, 

Would meet uncomplaining the future 
With all the deep grief it may bring* 

My treasure— my golden-haired darling — 

The one beaming light in my sky — 
The one earthly joy that would make me 

Unwilling, regretful to die. 
Ah ! yes, and there still is another 

Strong tie to this world and its strife, 
A faint little spirit depending 

On mine for its being and life. 

My soul, with its motherhood fondness, 

Goes out with a yearning sublime, 
Enfolding with its passionate loving 

My babe on the threshold of time. 
I know I shall pass *neath the shadow 

That leads to the portal of death ; 
My life may go out in the hour 

That gives to my darling its breath. 



AT TWILIGHT. 1 87 

The soft little fingers of velvet 

By their mother's may never be pressed, 
Nor the rosy lips ever be lifted 

For nourishment up to my breast, 
God knows, for it seems that a darkness 

Is gathering over my head ; 
That the light has gone out from my spirit, 

Where shadows droop heavy instead ; 

That death and the grave lie before me 

With banner already unfurled, 
When soon I shall sink into slumber, 

To waken no more in this world. 
May God in His goodness sustain me, 

When through the dark valley I tread ; 
O Mary ! my mother ! support me. 

Uphold on thy bosom my head. 

In pity look down on my children, 

When lifeless their mother shall lie, 
Or lay them in mercy beside me. 

As cold and unbreathing as I. 
The world is so dark and so gloomy. 

So full of the grief I have known — 
O Father ! I tremble to leave them 

To meet the bleak storm all alone. 



THE SILENT HOUSE. 



No gay laughter rippling lightly 
On the soft rose-scented air — 

Not a youthful tone of gladness — 
No quick step upon the stair. 

Yet his presence ever lingers 

In the quiet shaded hall, 
Looking downward from the pictures 

That are hanging from the wall. 

Living fresh amid the roses 
Waving in their rarest bloom, 

Thrilling with his dear remembrance 
Every thing about his room. 

What a host of tender memories 
In his mother's heart must rise. 

When the sunlight through the window 
Sends the glory of the skies ! 
i88 



THE SILENT HOUSE. 1 89 

How he loved the sunset hour, 
With its waves of crimson light 

Flooding all the West with glory 
Gorgeous, beautiful, and bright I 

And they often sat together, 

Till the silver moonlight came 
Softly through the golden twilight 

With its paler, purer flame. 

Bathing all the world in beauty. 
While the stars shone bright above, 

Holy as the son's devotion — 
Cloudless as that mother's love. 

Now, the mother lingers sadly 

At the casement all alone, 
While the son has found the splendor, 

Of the, great Eternal Throne. 

Stands beside the flowing river, 

Where the limpid waters roll, 
Like the flow of inspiration 

In his perfect artist soul. 



190 THE SILENT HOUSE. 

Though his spirit has been lifted 
To a higher, purer scene, 

It must surely light the pathway 
Where his living feet have been. 

Bending softly down the silence 
From his home of bliss above. 

Drawn to earthward by the yearning 
Of a mother's deathless love. 

Like the gentle dews of heaven 
Falling on some broken flower, 

Lifting up the drooping petals, 
With an unseen thrilling power. 

I have wept for little children 
Dying in their tender years, 

I have bathed their little coffins 
In a flood of a bitter tears. 

And my heart bleeds for the mother 
Who has seen the cold earth piled 

High above the icy bosom 
Of her own and only child, 



LINES 



WHtten on the death of my little pet^ Keary, who tired of 
earth in four brief years. 

Our little flower is crushed to earth ; 

Too rudely blew the chilling blast ; 
Death marked our darling from his birth ; 

He was too frail and fair to last, — 
Too frail to meet the heavy cares 

That are to mortals surely given, — 
Unfit to weep life's bitter tears, — 

Too fair for any thing but heaven. 

Oh, never shall my soul forget 

Our little Keary*s wailing cry, 
His tiny hands, with death-dews wet, 

His paling cheek, and fading eye ! 
I oft have watched his gambols wild. 

His sparkling eyes grow bright with glee ; 
He was a playful, lovely child, 

And oh, how very dear to me ! 
191 



192 LINES. 

But now, pale, drooping on my heart, 

Like flowers bathed in snow, he lay, 
His little ashen lips apart. 

His sweet breath passing fast away. 
Though life at best is but a book 

Where griefs and sorrows thickly lie. 
How could I meet his mother's look. 

And tell her that her child must die ? 

But when his voice no more could speak. 

When spent the last faint quivering breath. 
When cold and colorless his cheek, — 

Oh ! he was beautiful in death. 
As we gazed upon his baby brow. 

All cold and white as drifting snow. 
We thought, though bright in heaven now. 

He 's left an angeFs form below. 

We feel that he is now in heaven 

With God, who first our treasure gave ; 
But once that treasure to us given, 

'T was hard to lay him in the grave. 
'T was hard to see him pass away 

From earth to his eternal home ; 
O God ! then give us strength to say : 

" Father, Thy will, not mine, be done." 



BURIED AT SEA. 



[Suggested by the burial, in Galveston Bay, of a woman 
who died on shipboard of a contagious fever.] 

Far back in the ages, dim with dust, 

We read of the idol gold ; 
And under the sacred roof-tile yet 

The story is often told 
Of the idol wrought — of the precious ore — 

And set in the temple fair ; 
When men bowed down to the golden calf, 

Forgetting that God was there. 

But that was ages ago, they say, 

Before the Redeemer came. 
When all this beautiful Christian love 

Was naught but a smothered flame. 
When even the wisest, best of men — 

The truest of all the true — 
The godlike words of the golden rule 

Not one of them even knew. 
193 



194 BURIED AT SEA. 

But now it is nineteen hundred years 

Almost, since the world was told 
That God's own Son came down to teach 

Of love far better than gold : 
A beautiful story of hope and faith, 

Of triumph beyond the tomb ; 
Where charity's pure and spotless flower 

Is kept in immortal bloom. 

How Christians stand in the ranks of death, 

With never a doubt nor fear ; 
Doing the work of the God they serve. 

Knowing His arm is near ; 
Tenderly watching the fevered pulse, 

Now bathing the burning head ; 
Flinging the golden calf away, 

And working for God instead. 



Only a storm-tost ship at sea, 
And the wild wave's hungry roar. 

The red-hot touch of a fevered gale 
In sight of a Christian shore. 

Weak women and children lying there 
Bowed down by its burning breath, 



BURIED AT SEA. 195 

Pleading to human hearts in vain 
From the open gates of death. 

Only a dread of the pestilent gale, 

A terrible godless fear ; 
A shrinking away from the awful scourge 

That seems so fatally near ; 
Bringing across our beautiful isle 

Its cruel and painful trail, 
Throwing its tainted air abroad 

From a poison-spreading sail. 

Only a woman lying there 

On the vessel's deck to die ; 
Nothing but ragged canvas stretched 

Between her face and the sky. 
Moaning in agony to the storm, 

Just telling the winds her pain — 
Only a cold, dead form at last 

Washed over with waves and rain. 

Lying at peace on the upper deck. 
With never a shroud nor grave ; 

Lowered at last by tremulous hands 
Down under the raging wave, — 



196 BURIED AT SEA. 

Lowered away from the tossing ship, 
No reading of psalm, nor prayer, 

To breathe of peace to the parting soul, 
No whisper that God is there. 

Galveston, August 8, 1852. 



A WIFE'S APPEAL. 



My darling, come to me once more, 

And lay my head upon your breast. 
But let me feel your loving arms 

About me, as they have been pressed. 
Alone at midnight here I lie 

In wakeful, agonizing pain ; 
My heart is breaking with the thought 

That we may never meet again. 

O God ! my very soul to-night 

Is steeped in tears of bitter woe, 
My spirit yearns for all the ties 

That bound us in the long-ago. 
In memory of the sweet dead boy, 

Whose baby heart was all your own, 
My husband, do not cast aside 

The purest love your life has known. 

For Maggie's sake, whose sunbright hair 
Lies curled upon her cold sweet brow, 
197 



198 A wife's appeal. 

Whose bright blue eyes, so like to yours, 
Sleep in eternal silence now ; 

For sorrows that we both have known. 
For burdens that we both must bear, 

Oh ! let me lean upon your heart. 
And find my sweetest comfort there. 

And by the holy sacred dust 

That slumbers in three little graves, 
Can we not lay all coldness down 

Beneath the flow of peaceful waves ? 
Then by that last dear living tie — 

The boy who slumbers at my side, — 
O darling ! to have kept your love 

I would most willingly have died. 

Give me again the tender care 

I prize so fondly, madly still ; 
But one sweet word to soothe my heart, 

Then take my whole soul if you will. 
My God ! crush back the bitter thought ! 

Say — must I claim your love no more ? 
My darling, then I can but die — 

And dying, I must still adore. 



TO LITTLE EDWILUS MAMMA. 



[Mrs. Vance Allen of Galveston. '\ 

Your dear little girl is already 
A poem, so tender and sweet, 

No fairy-like touches of fancy 

Could make it more lovely, complete. 

With cheeks like the petals of roses, 
A brow like the lily so fair, — 

And surely the sunshine has wandered 
And lost all its gold in her hair. 

The angels of twilight when painting 
The soft summer blue of the skies. 

Let fall from its exquisite azure 
A beam for her beautiful eyes. 

The flowers all blushing and dewy, 
New-born in the heart of the South, 

Gave Nature their loveliest rosebud 
And cleft it apart for her mouth. 

199 



200 TO LITTLE EDWILL S MAMMA. 

Her beautiful, bright second summer 
Is dropping its bloom on her brow, 

May the roses and sunshine and fragrance 
Ever crown her as sweetly as now. 



LINES. WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 



The best and noblest part of man's life here 
Is that wherein he loves and honors woman ; 
' T is there his soul is lifted to a higher sphere- 
In all things else, his nature is but human. 



201 



TO MY LITTLE NAMESAKE, MAY DEE 
COLLIER. 



Is it but my foolish fancy 

That you have your father's eyes, 

That the presence of his spirit 
In their azure beauty lies ? 

Little one, lift up your lashes- 
Lift them up, and let me see 

If the light is in their glances 
That was once so dear to me. 



I can see your mother's beauty 

Playing in your dimples now, 
And her golden hair is rippling 

Softly from your baby brow. 
The same bright waves of color 

In your cheeks I see arise, 
But — look up, you precious baby ! — 

Yes, you have your father's eyes, 

202 



TO MY LITTLE NAMESAKE. 203 

With their sparkle and expression 

And their soft impassioned hue, 
Like the shining sun-kissed heaven, 

Tender, beautiful, and blue. 
And I clasp you to my bosom 

With a sudden rush of tears, 
While a dream I thought forgotten 

Rises from the sea of years, — 

Rises up and stands before rae 

Like the faces that we see 
Cut in cold and pallid marble. 

Wrought in death's white imagery. 
And the pale hand of remembrance 

Lifts the pall that lies above 
The cold and lifeless ashes 

Of a dead and buried love, — • 

Lifts it up and lays it sadly 

On the broken, ruined shrine. 
Once the sacrificial altar 

Of his youthful heart and mine. 
Softly through my spirit trembles 

Such a low, impassioned strain, 



204 TO MY LITTLE NAMESAKE. 

Bringing all the old-time sweetness 

And its music back again ; 
Throbbing, swelling into rapture, 

Like some cherub-chanted chime, 
Sweeping into outer darkness 

All the later colder time. 
And I stand again beside him, 

In life's fresh unfolded hours. 
Where love's pearly, plumaged angel 

Threw his shadow on the flowers. 



Though the stars, like flashing jewels, 

Hung upon the summer skies. 
Yet I saw nor cared for nothing 

Save the love-light in his eyes. 
But a silent, cruel coldness 

Crept like death our hearts between, 
Chilling into icy nothingness 

The bliss that might have been. 

God keep you always, darling, 

For the two names that you wear j 

May His blessings ever brighten 
With the sunlight in your hair. 



TO MY LITTLE NAMESAKE. 205 

Keep your life from every shadow, 

And your soul from sin as free 
As the pure and spotless flower 

That you are to-night, May Dee, 



MY MOTHER. 



Who was it when my infant breath 

Was pure as angels' own, 
Watched o'er me with such tender care 

And soothed my every moan ? 
My Mother. 

Who taught my prattling baby lips 

To lisp my prayers at morn ; 
Who strewed my earthly path with flowers 

And buried every thorn ? 

My Mother. 

Who, when the bright-red buds of youth 

Are bursting into bloom. 
Entreats me to remember well 

That God may call them soon ? 
My Mother. 



206 



TO MY FATHER. 

ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 



Written while a child at school. 



I greet thee, father, with delight, 

On this, thy natal day, 
And thank the God, that spares thee still, 

To guard me on life's way. 
Without thee, joy would not be joy ; 

Ah ! life would have no charms, 
If I could never more find rest 

In thy paternal arms. 

The hand of time upon thy head 

Is sprinkling hoary hair, 
The furrows deep upon thy brow 

Too truly tell of care. 
But memory still in gladness turns 

To some bright, happy hours, 
When o'er thy pathway sweetly bloomed 

Love's gayly tinted flowers ; 
207 



2o8 TO MY FATHER. 

When in the rosy dawn of youth, 

Thy loved one at thy side, 
She stood beneath the orange bower 

Thy newly plighted bride. 
Yes, tho' time's frost is on thy head. 

His furrows on thy brow. 
The love that warmed thy young heart then 

Burns there as brightly now. 



Tho' many years may flee away, 

Tho' sorrows o'er thee roll. 
Still will the love-chords struck in youth 

Vibrate upon the soul. 
Life's sunny side has passed, and now, 

Thou gazest on the plain 
That rolls afar beyond thine eye 

To endless joy or pain. 



But though thy sun of mirth be set, 
No more to gild thy way. 

May gentle beams of holy peace 
Light thy declining day. 



TO MY FATHER. 209 

May clouds ne*er hover o'er thy head, 

Thy sky be clear and mild, 
Shall be the true and constant prayer 

Of thy devoted child. 

S. F. College, February i, 1858. 



THE PLACE OF REST. 



I asked a laughing, romping child : 

" Where is a place of rest ? " 
She tossed her curls in a pretty way, 
And said : " When I am tired of play 

I lean on mother's breast.** 

1 asked a boy on his way to school i 
*' Do you know a place of rest ? " 
He dropped a stick he was whittling then, 
But said, as he picked it up again : 
" Our old playground *s the best." 

I wandered on in my weary walk, 
Foot-sore, with aching breast ; 
** Oh ! where,'* I asked of a busy man, — 
** Do tell me, sir, if indeed you can, 
A place where I may rest ? ** 

He stopped, with a lofty look of pride : 
*^ Ah ! stranger, you but jest ; 

210 



THE PLACE OF REST. 211 

'T is only those who sow will reap, 
And he who wins in the race must keep 
Right on, — he must not rest." 

I asked a woman I saw sit down. 

With her baby on her breast : 
" * The place of rest/ did I hear you say ? 
God knows, I have worked since dawn of day,— 

I never have time to rest." 

I asked a man who was rich and great, 

As on I sadly pressed ; 
His brow was knitted and dark with care ; 
He said, with his hand on his snowy hair : 

" I never have thought of rest." 

I asked a lady with golden hair. 

And jewels upon her breast ; 
She raised her beautiful star-like eyes 
And said : " Oh ! nowhere under the skies 

Can I find peace nor rest." 

I asked a beggar, whose ragged shirt 
Scarce covered his swarthy breast ; 
He put on his crownless hat and said : 
" When somebody gives me a crust of bread, 
I sit on this stone and rest." 



212 THE PLACE OF REST. 

I asked a woman so old and gray, 

I thought she would know the best ; 
She said : *' I have toiled through grief and tears 
For fourscore long and weary years — 
I have almost found my rest." 



I asked a clergyman walking slow, 

With a cross upon his breast ; 
He folded his snow-white hands and said 
'^ 'T is only the sheeted and quiet dead 
To whom it is given to rest.*' 



Then I began to tire at last 

Of my long and fruitless quest, 
When some one said, in a cheery voice, 
That made my wearied heart rejoice : 
" Come home with me, and rest." 



Ah ! here I thought is what I wished 

I feel no more oppressed. 
I grasped his friendly hand and walked 
Beside him, while he laughed and talked 

Of wife, and home, and rest. 



THE PLACE OF REST. 213 

We Stopped before a low white gate, 

The latch he gently pressed, 
The cottage door stood open wide ; 
His baby sleeping just inside, 

Upon its mother's breast. 



Two other little ones I saw, 

All cleanly, sweetly dressed. 
He met his wife's uplifted eyes. 
Blue as the summer sunlit skies ; 
Her lips he softly pressed. 

He took his baby from her arms. 

And tossed it up in glee, 
And while its joyous laugh rang out. 
The other two clung close about 

Their happy father's knee. 

The young wife smiled upon them all, 

Her dearest, sweetest, best ; 
No look of weariness is there, 
Wrought by the hand of anxious care. 
** Ah ! here at last is rest." 



TO D. M. 



Thou art the first who ever tried 
My feelings thus to move, — 

The first who ever sought to win 
My wayward heart to love. 

My fancy has been always free, 
As birds that cleave the sky, 

As though young Cupid ne'er drew bow. 
Or let an arrow fly. 

Thy heart is pleading now for mine, 

But how shall I reply ? 
We are so youngs we both may change, 

E*en as the roses die. 

Thy lips declare that naught on earth 

Could chill thy love for me, 
But Cupid is a cunning lad — 

He may prove false to thee, 
214 



TO D. M. 215 

'T is better that we should not bind, 

By one rash promise now, 
The hearts that may in future years, 

Forget each youthful vow. 

But when thou art to manhood grown, 

When I, from books am free, 
If then my heart should still be thine 

And thine beat true to me — 

Then come again, and freely tell 

The tale of early love. 
Which time nor absence could not quell, 

But only faithful prove. 

Cone-Brook, June 20, 185--=, 

****** 



TO MY HUSBAND. 



Long years ago — a happy child, 

I penned these simple lines to thee, 
When thou in boyhood's passion wild 

Poured out thy heart's first love to me. 
Tho' we are older, wiser now. 

Have learned somewhat of worldly lore. 
We cherish still that early vow, 

Breathed in the happy days of yore. 

Ten years have sped their onward flight — 

Ten years of mingled joy and woe, 
But o'er them all has played the light 

Of that one day, long, long ago. 
Upon the world's great stage I 've borne, 

In varied scenes, my humble part ; 
But whether smiles or tears I 've worn. 

It hovered still about my heart. 

In peace — in war — alike it came, 
To whisper to my soul of thee, 
216 



TO MY HUSBAND. 217 

While in thy bosom dwelt the same 
Undying love then breathed to me. 

The past steals o'er my heart to-night 
With thrilling, almost magic, power, 

Each memory picture glowing bright, 
As in its first enchanting hour. 

There lingers yet, far, far away, 

A scene thou wilt remember well, 
A soldier in a suit of gray — 

A flag unfurled — a sad farewell. 
The years that passed — our meeting then, 

All glide before my vision now ; 
To-night I seem to breathe again, 

To thee, the holy bridal vow. 

Yet still I love that suit of gray. 

Though I may see thee wear it never ; 
And still I mourn the fatal day 

That furled the " starry cross '* forever. 
But what avails it now ? 't is well — 

The past beyond recall is gone ; 
A nation rose — a nation fell — 

The universe moves calmly on. 



2l8 TO MY HUSBAND. 

We are at peace, and I to-night 

Sit dreaming in our happy home, 
In fancy weaving visions bright 

That to my heart may never come. 
In each fresh garland that I twine 

To bind around our future joy, 
There glows a jewel — thine and mine — 

Our brightest gem- — our baby boy. 

Two years I Ve been thy happy wife, — 

Two years from care and sorrow free. 
When this one page from childhood's life 

Recalled our early dreams to me. 
The love I then dared not express. 

To-night burns with a passion wild. 
As kneeling, I pray God to bless 

My husband — and my darling child* 

ViCKSBURG, January 15, 1867. 



TO MOTHER. 



But a few dreary years at the best, Mother, 
And my head will be silent and low ; 

Then the daisies shall bloom in the spring-time, 
And the winters shall pile up their snow- 

I am weary, so weary of earth, Mother, 

That I long for the haven of rest ; 
For sorrow has folded her wing in my soul, 

And sits quite at home in my breast. 

All the hopes of my life drift away. Mother, 
Like the dead autumn leaves on a stream ; 

They have lived, they have died, they have fallen, 
I remember them now as a dream. 

The home that I once called my own, Mother ; 

The children I nursed at my breast — 
Ah ! that home is the dwelling of strangers, 

And three of my babes lie at rest. 
219 



220 TO MOTHER. 

And one who was dearest and best, Mother, 
Whose arm was my shield and my stay,- 

Lies silent and cold in the grave beneath 
The dew and the flowers to-day. 

Now I am so lonely and sad, Mother ; 

I am even too tired to weep ; 
I long to lie down by my lost ones, to-night, 

And lose all my sorrows in sleep. 



BAPTISM IN THE SEA. 

INSCRIBED TO DR. AND MRS. DUNKLIN, 
CHURCH STREET, GALVESTON. 



The golden sunlight trembles down 
Upon the sea's broad breast. 

The blue waves roll 

Like eager soul 
Toward the land of rest. 

They bow their crested heads to meet 
The pilgrims on the shore, 

Who turn to-day 

In tears away 
From sin forever more. 

Beneath the blue baptismal wave, 
All human struggles cease ; 

Since Jesus stood 

In Jordan's flood, 
And found the Dove of Peace. 

221 



222 BAPTISM IN THE SEA. 

At God's command they quit the land, 
Like Israers hosts of yore, 
The waves divide 
As side by side 
They humbly leave the shore. 



And as I stand to-day and gaze 
Upon the wave-washed strand, 

And watch the foam 

Come tossing home 
To die upon the sand, 

The thoughts arise of other years, 
Of precious hopes long past — 

Our friends and foes, 

Our joys and woes. 
On life's great ocean cast. 

And dearer than all other days 
That breathe of you, my wife, 

I hold the one 

When you begun 
Your higher, purer life. 



BAPTISM IN THE SEA. 223 

*T was here, on this same beach you stood, 
So many years ago, 

The seal of grace 

On your sweet face 
Beside the water's flow. 

The same bright surf, yet not the same. 
That flowed above your brow. 

Baptismal graves — 

Redeeming waves — 
Where are those waters now ? 

Gone murmuring to the boundless sea 

Of God's eternal love. 
Or like the mist by sunbeams kissed 

They veil the blue above. 

Perchance again they fall in dew 

Upon some marble tomb. 
Sparkling and bright, like living light, 

They gem its pallid gloom. 

Or trembling o'er some lowly grave 

By daisy blooms up-borne. 
They softly speak to death's pale cheek 

Of Resurrection Morn. 



224 BAPTISM IN THE SEA. 

Those sacred waves are scattered now, 

And fresher billows flow, 
While strangers stand upon the strand 

Where you stood years ago. 

Buried with Christ — how sweet the thougiit, 

To each regenerate breast, 
That humbly bears, yet proudly wears, 

God's seal upon it pressed. 



TO CORA STEWART3 OF GALVESTON. 

ON HER WEDDING-DAY, 



Dear Cora, my spirit yearns over you now, 

As the warm light of love flushes up to your brow, 

And rosily tinges your cheek ; 
With a tenderness only a woman can feel, 
And I fervently breathe, as I silently kneel, 

A prayer that no language can speak. 

Your feet are just crossing the shadowy line. 
Where the orange and myrtle their fragrance com- 
bine, 

And fill the soft air with perfume ; 
A new light is breaking to-day in your sky, 
The old happy life is forever laid by, 

Fresh flowers are bursting in bloom. 

May the beautiful beam of God's radiant love 
Ever shine through the blue that is bending above, 

225 



226 TO CORA STEWART. 

Falling over your pathway of years ; 
Making every joy of the future more bright, 
Lining every cloud with a silvery light, 

And sanctify even your tears. 

Galveston, January 20, 1881. 



A FRAGMENT. 



The harp of the past echoes strangely to-night 

In low thrilling murmurs of sadness, 
It whispers of moments once joyous and bright, 

Of hours that flitted in gladness. 
I 'm sitting alone in the scenes of my youth, 

Where I first of love's witchery dreamed, 
The spot where I pledged to my lover my truth, 

And thought the world bright as it seemed. 



This moment how well I remember the hour — 

How well I remember that night — 
I gave him my love in the form of a flower, 

A rose-bud so spotlessly white. 
He clasped it in silence, and with it the hand 

That gave him the delicate token. 
And murmured a prayer that our plighting should 
stand 

A monument ever unbroken. 
227 



228 A FRAGMENT. 

Alas ! for our love, and alas ! for the hour, 

Both proved like a meteor darting, 
The frost of misfortune soon withered the flower, 

Soon bitterly fell on our parting. 
The friends then about me have left me in gloom, 

Are now far from me and each other, 
Two gone to the altar and one to the tomb, 

The last one a wife and a mother. 



Oh ! Mary, I bear in my memory still 

The songs that you sang to us then, 
They breathe o'er my heart with a harrowing thrill 

As I never shall hear them again. 
Dear friend of my childhood, we laid her to rest 

Where the violets bloom on the turf o'er her 
breast. 
Alone I am dreaming of glances long fled, 

With a sigh for the living, a tear for the dead. 



AFTER LONG YEARS. 



I stand once again in the home of my youth. 

The sunny old house on the hill. 
The jessamine vine with its pure waxen stars 

Climbs lovingly over it still. 
The roses are flinging their fragrance abroad 

And freighting the air with perfume ; 
The myrtles are dropping their gay-colored leaves, 

The pathway is pink with their bloom. 

The spirit of silence reigns over the place, 

My lashes are heavy with tears. 
The faces I knew and the voices I loved 

Have drifted away with the years. 
The grass, long and tangled, is hiding the path 

That leads to the orchard to-day ; 
The well has grown dry, and the moss-covered curb 

Is broken and crumbling away. 

The birds sing and twitter about the old trees 

The swallows coo under the eaves, 
229 



230 AFTER LONG YEARS. 

The wind sweeping on with a desolate sound 
Moans over the bright-colored leaves. 

The old happy time rushes over me now, 
In surges of passionate pain ; 

The voice of the past, like a wail o'er the dead, 
Trembles up in a tender refrain. 

Again I am standing — a bright, happy child — 

Just under the vines at the gate. 
Kissing father " good-bye," — there, under that tree, 

Is where his white horse used to wait, — 
His spirited pony who answered our call. 

And shook his proud head in the air. 
Impatiently pawing the earth where he stood. 

Well knowing his master was there. 

The old tree is standing, still strong in its pride, 

Its boughs spreading broadly and low ; 
No longer in waiting, the snowy white steed 

Slipped the halter of life years ago. 
My tears glitter bright on the half-broken rail 

As over the low gate I lean ; 
The days of my childhood seem gleaming afar, 

With death shadows falling between. 



AFTER LONG YEARS. 231 

I have looked on the grave of my father to-day, 

My heart throbbing painfully slow ; 
I have knelt at the feet of my mother, and hid 

My tears in her robings of woe. 
Sad silence is hanging about the old house 

That once rung with music and song, 
And only the desolate wail of the winds 

Is mournfully sweeping along. 



My brother's light laughter, so boyish and free. 

That once floated out on the breeze, 
No longer is heard in the dim, solemn shade, — 

Deep quiet reigns under the trees. 
He has wandered away to the gold-tinted West, 

And made him a home by the sea ; 
His letters, so full of his young wedded joy, 

Are lovely and precious to me. 



One sister wears now on her beautiful face 

The mystical traces of tears ; 
O'er the grave of the husband she loved, she has 
wept 

Three desolate, sorrowful years. 



232 AFTER LONG YEARS. 

The other, the youngest and last of us all, 
Still lingers, and loves the old place ; 

No sorrow can live in her happy young heart. 
Nor sweep the bloom out of her face. 

I had longed to come back, just to linger awhile 

In the home of my childhood again ; 
But the joy that I sought wears the draping of woe. 

And has passed through the valley of pain. 
And I weep for the faces I never shall see, 

For the voices I cannot forget ; 
While the mantle of sadness falls over my soul, 

And remembrance is crowned with regret. 

VicKSBURG, Miss., 1880. 



DISTRUSTED. 



You will know some time, my darling, 
That I never wronged you, never ; 

That all my heart and soul are yours 
Forever and forever. 

But you will learn, my darling, 
Too late for tears or grieving. 

The bitter falsehood of the tale 
You crushed me in believing. 

I loved you, oh ! my darling. 
Too trustingly to doubt you, 

And pulse by pulse my life has failed 
Since I have lived without you. 

You would not hear, my darling, 
My wild impassioned pleading. 

But tore my breaking heart from yours, 
And tossed it from you bleeding. 
233 



234 DISTRUSTED. 

The blood-waves beat, my darling, 
And plash with weak endeavor, 

And soon I know that they shall cease 
Their fitful play forever. 

I care not, for, my darling, 

When hearts are slowly breaking 

They crave the Lethe of the sleep 
That knows no dream nor waking. 

Could I out-live, my darling, 
Your faith in me ? ah ! never ; 

For when I lost your love, I lost 
My hold on life forever. 



MY GALVESTON HOMK 



Just a tiny little cottage 

With its nest of clinging vines, 
Where the shadows linger softly 

And the golden sunlight shines. 
Where the snowy sweet allyssum 

Lifts its pretty spotless face, 
And the purple-tinted pansy 

Droops its head in tender grace. 

The pearly, pure-white jessamine 

Nestles in its shining leaves. 
Near the coral-throated cypress 

That is clinging 'round the eaves. 
Waxen lily bells are swinging 

Like white censers in the shade. 
Where the oleander blossoms 

Such a blooming shrine have made ; 

Tossing off their pale pink petals 
Drifting down in rosy showers, 
235 



22,6 MY GALVESTON HOME. 

Kissing lightly as they flutter 
Golden-hearted orange flowers. 

Through the perfumed aisles of summer 
Gentle winds are blowing free, 

And across the island softly 
Come the whispers of the sea \ 

Bringing to my heart the throbbing 

Of its grandly solemn deep, 
Hushing every human murmur 

To a quiet, restful sleep, 
Lifting up my soul to heaven 

With its never-ceasing prayer, 
Throwing back the tuneful echoes 

Of the music swelling there. 

There is something strangely thrilling 

In this song from out the sea, 
Something weirdly sweet and tender 

In its wailing notes to me. 
And I love to sit at evening 

Just outside my cottage door, 
When the waves break on the silence. 

Rushing white upon the shore. 



MY GALVESTON HOME. 237 

When the violets are filling 

All the air with rich perfume, 
And the starry lights are twinkling 

Softly downward through the gloom. 
Then the song comes floating to me 

With its tender, sweet refrain, 
Flooding all my soul with gladness, 

Stilling every pulse of pain. 

And I bend my head in silence, 

There beneath the sky's blue dome. 
Thanking God for all the blessings 

That he showers on my home ; 
For a thousand simple pleasures 

That about my path are strown, 
For the manly heart that shelters, 

With such loving strength, my own ; 

For the boy whose steps are verging 

Almost into manhood now, 
Who wears his father's likeness 

In his form and on his brow ; 
For the little one whose laughter 

Rings out lightly on the air, 



238 MY GALVESTON HOME. 

With dark eyes bright and sparkling, 
And the sunlight in his hair. 



And if my voice will falter. 

And the tears come to my eyes, 
When my other little children 

Whisper to me from the skies ; 
If I sometimes feel the yearning 

For my little ones again, 
It is but the mother-longing 

That has scarce a touch of pain,- 

Just a sigh from out the silence 

Of the unforgotten past, 
Like the sound of distant music 

Borne along upon the blast. 
For I feel that every sorrow 

My eventful life has known, 
Will be harvested in gladness 

For the tears that I have sown. 



And I love my humble dwelling. 
With its zephyrs and its flowers, 



MY GALVESTON HOME. 239 

With the clinging vines about it, 
And the birds among the bowers. 

From the loving ones within it 
I have not a wish to roam, 

For the Dove of Peace abideth 
In my heart and in my home. 



TO COL. T. L. ODOM. 



Into a valley of sombre shade, 

With never a ray of light, 
My sorrowful heart, all cold and dumb, 

Was wrapped in a starless night. 

Where once an altar of roses stood 

In the light of a sun-lit day, 
The darkness lay on a silent shrine. 

The flowers had fallen away. 

And over the marble death had crept 

Like mildew over a tomb, 
Even the ashes love had left 

Were lost in the chilling gloom, 

When suddenly, flashing through the night, 

A star of the grandest power 
Threw its radiant, brilliant light 

Over life's drooping flower ; 
240 



TO COL. T. L. ODOM. 241 

And down on the pale-white altar fell 

A silvery, sparkling beam, 
My heart grew warm and my bosom stirred 

To the touch of a heavenly dream. 

I watched the ashes gather again, 

And burst into vivid flame, 
While into my aching, sorrowful heart 

A gleam of its glory came ; 

As though some pitying angel rent 

The veiling of midnight cloud, 
Letting the light of a joyous hope 

Shine over my spirit's shroud. 

And musical voices seemed to float 
On the breast of the silence there ; 

Softly singing the song of love 
To the pulse of the sighing air. 

The flame on the altar flashed and burned, 

The roses burst into bloom, 
Their fragrance fell on the marble shrine 

In showers of rare perfume. 



242 TO COL. T. L. ODOM. 

A pure bright light has crowned again 

The circle of coming years. 
Thank God ! my heart has drained at last 

Its chalice of grief and tears. 



TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR AND HONORED FATHER, 

COL. HARPER P. HUNT, 

OF VICKSBURG, MISS., WHO DIED JANUARY 28, 1876, 
AGED 62 YEARS II MONTHS AND 27 DAYS. 



Alone in the bitterest sorrow, 

I stand in my twilighted room, 
Girding my strength for the future, 

Striving to face all its gloom. 
O God ! can it be that my father — 

My very best friend after God — 
Lies pulseless and cold in the valley, 

Low under the emerald sod ; 
With the earth in its horrible freshness 

All heavily heaped on his chest, 
And the hands that so tenderly blessed me 

Folded and still on his breast ! 

Never more to uphold nor caress me. 
To be all my strength and my stay, 

When Fate lays her heavy hands on me. 
And griefs thicken over my way. 
243 



244 COL. HARPER P. HUNT. 

God help me ! — my heart is so weary, 

So broken with sorrow and pain, 
So torn with this thought that I never 

Can lay down the burden again. 
Life seems bleakly barren before me, 

All cheerless, and chilly, and gray ; 
Its lights one by one have been darkened, 

Its roses have gone to decay. 

To-day I go back to my childhood, 

And lifting the crape from the door 
I stand in the sanctified chamber 

To gaze on its relics once more. 
And brightest and fairest and purest 

Of all the treasures I see, 
Are the worship I gave to my father. 

And the love that he lavished on me. 
His heart bent to mine as the heavens 

Bend down to the ocean's blue rim ; 
While mine was the pearl-tinted chalice 

That offered oblation to him. 

The king of my passionate childhood. 
He ruled every thought of my life ; 

Ever tenderly guiding me onward. 
Soothing all sorrovy find strife. 



COL. HARPER P. HUNT. 245 

And when the sweet valley of girlhood 

Unfolded its bloom to my view, 
His love gave to every flower 

A richer and ruddier hue. 
At last when in womanhood^s sorrows 

I bent under storm after storm, 
I found in his bosom a shelter, 

Strong like his own heart and as warm. 

I press my hands over my temples. 

And staggering, sink to the floor, 
With my very soul steeped in the yearning 

To look on my father once more. 
Only to see him and kiss him, 

To lay my head down on his breast, 
Where always before in my trouble 

I found so much comfort and rest. 
Alas ! all my impotent weeping, 

My heart-broken yearnings are vain ; 
On earth I shall never, oh ! never, 

Look on my dear father again. 

He has lifted the veil from the future, 
Has laid down the burden of years ; 



246 COL. HARPER P. HUNT. 

He Stands in the city all golden, 

I tread in the wine-press of tears. 
I know that my two little brothers 

Are close to his bosom to-night, 
Their brows all aglow with the halo 

Of heaven's own radiant light. 
There, too, are my three little children, 

All safe on that bright-tinted shore, 
Where never a sorrow can reach them. 

Nor sickness, nor pain, evermore. 

And Maggie — **my fair little daughter," 

Who left me three summers ago — 
Ran down to the brink of the river 

To meet her dear grandpa, I know ; 
I fancy I see him enfolding 

Her close in his arms as of old, 
His silver locks floating and mingling 

With her sunny ringlets of gold ; 
Her dimpled arms clinging about him 

In all of their soft, baby grace ; 
Her rosy cheek lovingly resting 

Its innocent bloom on his face. 

We all have our treasures in heaven, 
Our flowers immortally fair ; 



COL. HARPER P. HUNT. 247 

'T is only the dead leaves we bury, 

The fragrance is glorified there. 
But we weep for our own desolation 

Wild passionate rivers of tears ; 
With hearts that are human and bleeding 

We walk through the grief-laden years, — 
On, on till the great shining portal 

Of heavenly glory is passed, 
When safe with our crucified Saviour 

We all shall be gathered at last. 



IN MEMORY 
Of my Husband, David M'Caleb, who died Sept. 29, 1882. 



My trembling fingers nerveless fall, 

My broken harp in silence lies ; 
In vain I sweep its severed strings, 

No thrilling notes of music rise. 
A chill has fallen on my soul 

That freezes all my heart and brain 
My inspiration all has flown, 

I can not wake to song again. 

Yet I would send my spirit forth 

In wailing music as I write, 
To tremble on the grave that holds 

My bleeding, broken heart to-night. 
But I, to sing his praise, must lift 

My music to higher, purer spheres ; 
The voiceless sorrow in my breast 

Is crushed and crystallized in tears, 
248 



IN MEMORY. 249 

My boyish sweetheart, brave and true ; 

The hero of my earliest song, 
The idol of my maiden dreams, 

My soldier-lover, grand and strong ; 
The keeper of my woman's heart, 

Holding it dearer than his life ; 
The one who crowned me with his love, 

And blessed me with the name of wife. 

From childhood to his manhood's prime 

My image in his bosom slept ; 
The strings of his impassioned soul 

No hand but mine has ever swept. 
No other woman from his eyes 

The tender glance of love has known ; 
The close heart-pressure of his hand 

Was mine, and always mine alone. 

The love of all the world beside. 

Scarce missing it, I could have spared, 

But from my childhood to this hour 
His heart I never could have shared — 

Not even with our little ones, 

Who climbed and clung upon his breast ; 



250 IN MEMORY. 

He loved them fondly, but I knew 
He alway loved their mother best. 

And all my being sprang to meet 

The warmth his spirit gave to mine, 
My soul in gladness pouring out 

For him its richest, rarest wine. 
And now I sit alone, and weep 

In silence ; bitter, blinding tears 
Are falling, as I gaze upon 

The weary waste of coming years, — 

The days when I shall never hear 

His step upon my chamber floor ; 
The twilights when my listening heart 

Shall wait his coming never more. 
I stretch my arms in vain, and know 

His vanished form I can not reach ; 
And feel the silence, cold and dark. 

Unbroken by his loving speech. 

I look upon our oldest son. 

Striving to take his father's place ; 

And trace that father's image on 
Our baby's fair, unconscious face. 



IN MEMORY. 251 

Dear little boy ! he can not know 
The tender care his life has lost ; 

The portal of a father's heart 

His tiny feet had scarcely crossed. 

Sometimes when tears are dropping fast 

Upon my folded, listless hands, 
And bitter anguish rends my heart, 

A childish form beside me stands. 
My little De, with trembling lips, 

And curling lashes wet with tears, 
Speaks words of comfort to my soul. 

In wisdom far beyond his years. 

Of all the three, I think for him 

My heart sends up its brightest flame ; 
Perhaps it is because he wears 

His dear, dead father's honored name. 
I give my boy a love so deep 

It trembles down almost to pain ; 
In him I fancy I can see 

My own lost childhood rise again. 

And though beneath the cruel cross 
My heart in anguish seems to break. 



2^2 IN MEMORY. 

I know I must take up my life 
And live it for his children's sake. 

If I should faint and falter when 
My burden heavy on me lies, 

I feel his soul will stoop to mine 

And bring me courage from the skies. 

God blessed and God bereft my life, 

He gave, and then He took away ; 
But I will trust Him with a trust 

That knows no falter noj decay. 
The love that blossomed sweetly here 

Has burst into immortal bloom, 
And I shall find it once again 

Beyond the darkness of the tomb. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



[Died, at Cold Springs plantation, Clairborne County, Mis- 
sissippi, on Saturday, March 27, 1880, at i o'clock P.M., 
Laura M. McCaleb, wife of Henry Guillotte, and only 
sister of E. Howard McCaleb, of this city. Aged thirty- 
six years. — New Orleans Times.^ 

The broken threads of a woman's life 

Have quivered and sadly dropped apart ; 
The waxen hands in a listless clasp 

Are folded over the silent heart ; 
The lustre of the beautiful eye 

Is shrouded under the snowy lid ; 
The shimmering gold of the curling lash 

Has caught a gleam of the soul it hid, 

As if the spirit had turned again, 

And lingered just for an instant there, 

To leave a ray of its perfect light 
On the quiet lash and curling hair. 

Beautiful in the sleep of death. 
As some just broken lily flower, 
253 



254 IN MEMORIAM. 

Was it the strength of human love 

That robbed the grave of its ghastly power ? 

Just a whisper of heavenly love 

Across the closed and lifeless lips ; 
A shadowy touch of an angel's hand, 

Cold as ice to the finger-tips ; 
A little step in the outer dark, 

A pulse of human and anxious fear ; 
A clinging close to the Guiding Hand, 

Tenderly strong and always near. 

But oh ! the breaking of loving ties ; 

The sad, sad years that are yet to come, 
When children listen and call in vain 

For a mother's voice forever dumb ; 
The long days when the summer sun 

Shall shine athwart her place of rest, 
The autumns when the winds shall shake 

The leaves in showers on her breast ; 

The winters when the falling snow 
Shall whiten o'er the lowly mound, 

And like some folded winding-sheet, 
Drift slowly on the frozen ground. 



IN MEMORIAM. 255 

As seasons sadly come and go 

Throughout the slowly creeping years, 

God helps those aged hearts that mourn 
Above her dust with falling tears. 

Back to her childhood's sunny home, 

Where lulling breezes softly play, 
She came and laid her weary head, 

Before her spirit passed away. 
The stars that smiled upon her birth 

Above her grave their watches keep, 
'Mid crumbling tombs where of her race 

Six generations calmly sleep. 

The music-throated birds that swing 

Upon the swaging branches there, 
Will fling their songs of requiem 

Afloat upon the summer air ; 
The flowers that she so loved in life 

Will bloom upon the fragrant sod ; 
And softly whispering winds shall tell 

Of rest at last, and peace with God. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. LAURA G. 
ELLIS, OF AUSTIN. 

To-day as the sunshine falls about us, 

Flooding the earth with its waves of gold, 
We stand in a deep and rayless shadow, 

Cruelly dark and icily cold ; 
Shrinking away from the tones of gladness, 

Turning in tears from the sound of mirth, 
Seeing in all this beautiful splendor 

Only one terrible mound^of earth. 

Only the face of a fair, sweet woman, 

Shaded with tresses of soft, dark hair. 
The dear lips closed and the bright eyes faded, 

Resting asleep in the silence there ; 
Lying so still and cold before us. 

Never again to move nor speak ; 
Never to lift up the curling lashes 

Sweeping the colorless, marble cheek. 
256 



IN MEMORIAM. 257 

Heedless of all the passionate kisses 

Pressed on the coldly beautiful brow, 
Feeling not one of the sad caresses 

Showered in agony on her brow. 
Vain are the whispers of consolation 

Tenderly meant and so kindly said ; 
We only know we have loved and lost her, 

We can but feel she is lying dead. 

Chide us not, tho' the tears are falling 

Swiftly and silently like the rain ; 
We feel that bitterest pang of sorrow. 

That all our sorrowing is in vain. 
Vain was the loving care we gave her, 

Fruitless all of the prayers we said ; 
Death has gathered the cloud above her, 

And flung his snow wreaths over her head. 

Ah ! yes, we know she had sadly suffered 

Many a torturing pain for years. 
Patiently borne, with never a murmur. 

Melting the pity of others to tears ; 
Know she is safely at rest in heaven — 

There in its endless and radiant bloom, — 
But death is death, and its shadow lingers 

In her empty chair and her silent room. 



258 • IN MEMORIAM. 

Wringing the tears from the hearts that loved her, 

Whispering still of the love she gave, 
Thrilling the soul of the lonely husband 

Bowed in his agony over her grave. 
Only the hand of the God who made us 

Can sweep from his bosom its awful gloom, 
Only His infinite love can ever 

Lighten the darkness that lies in the tomb. 

Galveston, August, 1880* 



BABY IS DEAD. 



[Inscribed to the memory of little ''^ Rosa Glenn,"] 

Lay away the little garments, 

Fragrant with a mother's care ; 
Gather up the dainty trifles, 

Strewn around us everywhere. 
For the precious baby fingers 

Lie forever clasped in death, 
And the rosy lips have whitened, 

Underneath its icy breath. 



In a grave down by the sea-side, 

Dark and silent, cold and deep, 
We have laid our little darling 

In her last unbroken sleep. 
Priceless treasure, bought by anguish. 

Months of waiting, hours of pain ; 
Hers by every tie the strongest. 

Yet not hers on earth again. 
259 



26o BABY IS DEAD. 

Bright dark eyes sealed fast forever, 

Waxen limbs so white and still, 
Empty arms and aching bosom, 

Void that naught in life can fill ; 
Dewey floweret, early gathered, 

Made for angel hands to reap, 
Not one tinge of earth upon it — 

Just a baby gone to sleep. 



TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY 



Very Rev. Father L. C. M. CHAMBODNT, 

FOR SO MANY YEARS THE HONORED VICAR-GENERAL OF THE 

DIOCESE OF GALVESTON, AND THE BELOVED PASTOR 

OF ST. MARY'S PARISH, BY HIS HUMBLE 

AND DEVOTED CHILD IN CHRIST. 



Lightly tread across the chamber, 

Smooth the gray hair from his brow, 
Look upon the old man resting 

Sweetly from his labors now ; 
Drape the sable pall about him, 

Fold the sheet in snowy bands, 
Place the emblem of salvation 

In his folded, quiet hands. 
Bring the waxen lights and place them 

At his feet and at his head, 
Read the solemn words above him 

In the service for the dead ; 
261 



262 TRIBUTE. 

Softly swing the silver censers, 

Let the purple incense rise, 
Like the shadow of his spirit 

Floating upward to the skies ; 
Let the sweetest music tremble 

Through the stillness reigning there, 
And the fragrant breath of flowers 

Fill the tender, sunlit air ; 
Strew the snowy, waxen blossoms 

Fair and fresh above his breast ; 
Toll the bell in solemn sadness 

As we lay him down to rest. 

Here, among his faithful children, 

Where his bright example shone 
As a light to lead them onward 

To the great eternal throne. 
His dear hands in benediction 

On so many heads have lain. 
Many he baptized and married. 

And their children yet again ; 
He has soothed us in our sorrow 

When our hearts in anguish bled, 
He has brought us consolation 

When we wept above our dead. 



TRIBUTE. 263 

He has been our strength in sickness, 

Helping us to bear our pain, 
Wooing oft the straying spirit 

To his Saviour's arms again. 
Yet, amid the many blessings 

That he brought to us each day, 
He has found some to deny him, 

Some to doubt, and some betray ; 
He has known his own deep sorrows, 

Shed his bitter, secret tears ; 
Felt the cruel thorns that rankled 

In his crown of well-spent years. 

And when those so far beneath him 

Filled his heart with sorrow sore, 
Till the strong man bowed and quivered — 

Almost bled at every pore ;— 
When they laid upon his shoulders 

Bitter crosses hard to bear. 
Then he won his crown of patience, 

Bright as those the martyrs wear. 
Like his meek and lowly Master, 

Never murmured, day by day, 
Though his weary feet were bleeding 

From the thorns along the way* 



264 TRIBUTE. 

Patient, faithful, uncomplaining, 

Ever silent, brave, and true, 
Praying : ^^ Father, O forgive them. 

For they know not what they do." 
Till the Saviour stooped in pity, 

Took him to his loving breast. 
Saying : " Good and faithful servant, 

Enter thou into thy rest." 
Then the weary struggle ended, 

And the tired heart grew still, 
And his spirit rose triumphant. 

Doing his Redeemer's will. 

When the casket, flower-laden, 

Through the streets was sadly borne, 
Then there followed him in sorrow 

Hearts that truly, deeply mourn ; 
Not in hundreds, but in thousands. 

Walked with solemn step and slow 
The many friends who knew and loved him, 

Wearing emblems of their woe, — 
Bore him to the crape-crowned altar, 

Where so many years he stood, 
Lifting up the golden chalice 

Filled with the redeeming blood. 



TRIBUTE. 265 

Laid him in the grand cathedral 

That he built in other years ; 
Poured upon him the oblation 

Of his people's bitter tears. 
When the sacred rites were ended, 

And the last requiem sung — 
When the great bell in the tower 

Its last solemn note had rung, 
Then with tender hands we laid him 

In his deep and narrow bed ; 
Near his own shrine of " Our Lady/* 

Rests his noble, saintly head. 

And the sunlight through the window 

Cast a shining, golden wave. 
That fell brightly on the casket — 

Played about the open grave, 
As though the angels, bending 

Softly downward through the gloom, 
Poured the very light of heaven 

In the darkness of his tomb. 
And he lies there in his slumber. 

Undisturbed by sound or breath ; 
Victor even in surrender. 

Proudly conqueror in death. 



OUR DEAD PRESIDENT. 



The sound of muffled drums is heard, 
The dull boom of the minute-gun 

Breaks on the sunlit morning air ; 
The tale is told — the deed is done. 

A nation's mighty pulse is stirred 
With grief and sorrow, all too deep 

To find expression save in tears ; 
In sacred silence let us weep, — 

Weep for our chieftain's head laid low 
Before the vile assassin's thrust ; 

A country's hope in fair, fresh flower 
Down-trodden to the very dust. 

The world looks on with bated breath. 
And shrinks affrighted from the blow 

That spread the pall of death abroad. 

And draped the whole fair land with woe ; 
266 



OUR DEAD PRESIDENT. 267 

Crashing its way through every heart, 
Filling the sternest soul with gloom, 

Till North and South, in common grief, 
Clasp hands above his open tomb. 

Binding the fragrant immortelles 
Of deathless sorrow wet with tears, 

To wreathe around his *' storied urn," 
And bloom in all the future years. 

Each tender woman's heart must feel 
Some pang for her who mourns to-day 

The breaking of her dearest ties, 

Life's proudest honors snatched away. 

The desolation that overspreads 

This land to its remotest part, 
Is lost beside the mighty grief 

That sits within her widowed heart. 

The world that crowned him with its bays 
May cherish him with fleeting thought. 

But all her life will wear the trace 
Of this sad ruin fate has wrought. 



268 OUR DEAD PRESIDENT. 

For her we bend the suppliant knee 
In simple, tearful, earnest prayer, 

That she may trust the Chastening Arm, 
And find a Christian's comfort there. 

Galveston, September ig, 1881. 



MY BIRTHDAY. 



I slowly turn time's pages o*er and find I *m grow- 
ing old, 

The paler leaves of life are now beginning to un- 
fold, 

Youth's rosy-red is fading fast, its colors turning 
gray. 

The shadows of the passing years are gathering on 
my way. 

In looking back how short they seem, the years that 
lie between 

This day and one so long ago, when I was seven- 
teen ; 

And yet, time's great revolving wheel a dozen times 
and more 

Has dipped its tire beneath the wave that laves the 
other shore. 

What bright and girlish memories, what visions rich 

and rare. 

What varied fancies, precious hopes lie cold, and 

buried there ! 

269 



270 MY BIRTHDAY. 

They wilted, one by one, and died, like all earth's 
transient flowers, 

And now they sleep within the tomb of dear de- 
parted hours. 

Gone, gone forever ; naught now avails our wild, 
regretful tears. 

No wail of longing can recall our youth's receding 
years. 

In vain we stretch our yearning arms for pleasures 
past — in vain ! 

The morning dew, once brushed away, will sparkle 
not again. 

My life has reached its noontide hour, the zenith of 
its day ; 

My steps are verging now within the calmer, steadier 
way; 

I leave behind the summer fields of youth's un- 
broken green, 

Before me lies the calmer light of autumn's harvest 
scene ; 

I know my brightest hours are past, forever past 
— and yet, 

My heart in looking backward feels no throbbing of 
regret ; 



MY BIRTHDAY. 27 1 

I would not, if I could, recall one single buried 

year, 
To shed its ghastly light around a dead past on its 

bier. 

No, let them lie in slumbers deep as though mid- 
ocean's waves 
In surging billows rolled above their long-forgotten 

graves. 
I have no wish to lift the pall that on them darkly 

lies, 
I give their memory to-day no useless tears nor 

sighs. 
I know the passion flowers of youth, for me, are 

cold and dead ; 
The summer roses of my life lie fading on my 

head ; 
And yet, their bright and pristine bloom I care not 

to renew, 
It casts no shadow on my heart to watch their 

fading hue. 

All blossoms of terrestrial birth live but a little 

while; 
I lay me down, and turn to meet my autumn with 

a smile. 



272 MY BIRTHDAY. 

And will I pass through harvest time out in the 

wintry gale, 
Or shall I sooner lie with those who sleep within 

the vale ? 
God knows — for many of my time Death's sickle 

has laid low, 
While few indeed are spared to meet the winter's 

falling snow. 
My gaze along life's retrospect its anxious searching 

sends, 
To find but vacant places now, where stood my 

early friends. 

My childhood and my youth are gone ; it matters 

little now 
If thorns or roses lingered once upon my maiden 

brow, — 
*T is many varied years since I my girlhood laid 

aside. 
To give my hand to one I loved — a happy, trusting 

bride. 
Now, as I write my passing thoughts, I hear the 

entry door 
Thrown open, and two little heels come ringing on 

the floor ; 

K 



MY BIRTHDAY. 273 

My pen is laid aside while I with loving arms en- 
fold 

A childish form with bright black eyes and curling 
locks of gold. 

Our darling boy ! The only one now left where 

three were given — 
We gave the others back to God, He wanted them 

in heaven, 
The angels moored their little barks on the eternal 

shore ; 
We know that we shall find them there, " not lost, 

but gone before." 
Full half my life is spent, and we will not be parted 

long, 
And God will give me help, I know, to suffer, yet 

be strong. 
I fain would see my precious boy grow to his man- 

hood*s prime. 
Then I will fold my willing hands and wait my 

Maker's time. 



LIFE. 



Life is a problem strange and deep, 

A hope, a dream, a prayer, — 
A breath blown from the Infinite, — 

A sigh of the swaying air. 
We live, we wake to soul and sense, 

The heart beats strong and free. 
Our frail ships fling their sails abroad 

Over a throbbing sea. 

Our loving ones and those we love. 

The friend and secret foe. 
Fill up the book of human life 

With joy and pride, or woe. 
And when our dear ones drift across 

Death's tossing, boundless sea, 
We vail our hearts in grief, and weep 

That they have ceased to be. 

A little life fast throbbing out, 
Some mother's dying child, 
274 



LIFE. 275 

Can tear the heart in agony 
For words too deep and wild. 

A rumpled dress, a little shoe, 
A tarnished broken doll. 

Can break the seal of twenty years 
And all one's grief recall. 



Again the dimpled baby form 

Is lying on our breast, 
Again the rosy parted lips 

Upon our own are pressed ; 
Once more we take the tiny hands 

And fold them in our own, 
Our hearts vibrating to the love 

We mothers all have known. 

The little one we held so dear. 

Perhaps has lain for years 
Below the daisies and the grass. 

Beneath our falling tears. 
And many times before we find 

The same sweet dreamless rest, 
We learn in bitter grief to say : 

^'God always knows the best." 



276 LIFE. 

When trials gather thick and fast, 

When angry clouds arise, 
And drape their shadows quite across 

Our bending, sunny skies ; 
When not a gleam of light we see 

Shine from a shrouded sky, 
How wearily we count the days, 

And even wish to die ! 

When death has stilled the loving heart 

That throbbed against our own, 
Or paled the leaflets of the rose 

That bloomed for us alone ; 
When we have stood beside the grave 

Of husband or of wife, 
In that sad hour of wretchedness 

" O tell me, what is life ? '' 

Who can recall the dreams and hopes 

Of youth's unclouded day, 
And weep not over treasures lost 

And pleasures swept away ? 
Yet in our mortal path we find 

Sweet, ever-blooming flowers. 
That bud and blossom even in 

Our latest dying hours. 



LIFE. 277 

Some lily on a thornless stem, 

Whose spotless waxen bloom 
Will watch with bended head beside 

Our ashes in the tomb. 
Some friend who in our darkest hour 

Will bear our burdens too, 
And prove himself that Godlike thing — 

The trusted, tried, and true. 

We have our crosses and our crowns, 

Our days of shine and shade. 
And every heart a secret shrine 

Where some dead hope is laid. 
But v/hen our course is finished here 

And all its work is done. 
Then we will find 't was but a dream, 

And life is just begun. 



YOUTH RENEWED. 



TO EDWIN PEALE AND WALTER DONAHUE ON 
THEIR TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY. 

Long years ago, in a classic hall, 

Two laughing girls, in careless glee, 
Drank lightly at the fount of youth. 

Their young hearts happy, gay, and free. 
They loved each other as we love 

The bosom friend of early youth ; 
And time and distance only threw 

Upon their hearts the glow of truth. 

The years passed on ; their shadows fell 

But lightly on these girlish lives ; 
And life was but a summer dream 

Until they both were happy wives. 
Then children came to fill their homes, 

To lean and cling about their knees, 
Their laughter ringing blithely out 

In gladness on the floating breeze. 
278 



YOUTH RENEWED. 279 

Bright, joyous little ones, whose eyes 

Were brimming over with their mirth ; 
Their childish voices prattling there. 

Made sweetest music round the hearth. 
Though since their girlhood, time had borne 

Their daily lives so far apart. 
The early love was still as strong ; 

Each lived within the other*s heart* 

Then silently grief's shadows fell 

Like chilling clouds upon each breast ; 
Their little children tired of earth, 

And one by one were laid to rest. 
They drifted from their mothers* arms. 

Far over death's relentless waves ; 
The summer blossoms drooped their heads 

In sadness on their little graves. 

And in these darkened homes that God, 

So sorely, sadly had bereft, 
The loss was strangely equal ; for 

To each, one only child was left. 
And now those early friends have met. 

After the lapse of twenty years ; 
Met when their lives have learned to know 

The chastening love of grief and tears. 



28o YOUTH RENEWED. 

And from the brows of both their boys 

The childish curls are brushed away, 
As strong in manly pride they stand — 

These two, just twenty-one to-day. 
Their mothers dwell together now. 

In all their olden love and truth ; 
They watch their grown-up boys renew 

The friendship of their early youth. 

God bless these honest-hearted boys. 

And make them worthy of the love 
That clings about their lives to-day, 

Like sunbeams from the world above. 
God speed them in the path of life, 

Whose journey they have but begun ; 
May all its coming years be bright 

As this that greets the twenty- one. 



THE LITTLE BROWN CURL. 



A MEMORY OF MY OLD FRIEND, DR. JOHN R. HICKS 
OF VICKSBURG. 

A quaint old box with a lid of blue, 

All faded and worn with age, 
A soft little curl of a brownish hue, 

A yellow and half-written page. 

The letters, with never a pause nor dot. 

In a school-boy's hand are cast ; 
The lines and the curl I may hold to-day, 

But the love of the boy is past. 

It faded away with our childish dreams. 

Dying out like the morning mist ; 
And I look with a smile on the silken curl 

That once I have tenderly kissed. 

One night in the summer so long ago 

We played by the parlor door, 
And the moonlight fell like a silver veil 

Spreading itself on the floor. 
281 



282 THE LITTLE BROWN CURL. 

And the children ran on the gravelled walk, 

At play in their noisy glee, 
But the maddest, merriest one just then 

Was nothing to John and me. 

For he was a stately boy of twelve, 

And I was not quite eleven ; 
We thought, as we sat in the parlor door, 

We had found the gate to heaven. 

That night when I lay on my snowy bed, 

Like many a foolish girl 
I kissed and held to my little heart 

This letter and silken curl. 

I slept and dreamed of the time when I 

Should wake to a fairy life ; 
And sleeping blushed when I thought that John 

Had called me his little wife. 

I have loved since then with a woman's heart. 

Have known all a woman's bliss. 
But never a dream of the after-life 

Was purer or sweeter than this. 



THE LITTLE BROWN CURL. 283 

The years went by with the silver feet, 

And often I laughed, with John, 
Of the vows we made by the parlor door, 

When the moon and stars looked en. 

Ah ! boyish vows are broken and lost, 

And a girl's first dream will end ; 
But I dearly loved his beautiful wife, 

While he was my husband's friend. 

When last I went to my childhood's home, 

Far over the bounding wave, 
I missed my friend, for the violets grew 

And blossomed over his grave. 

To-day as I opened the old blue box. 
And looked on the soft brown curl, 

And read of the love John felt for me 
When I was a little girl, 

There came in my heart a throb of pain, 
And my eyes grew moist with tears, 

For the childish love, and the dear, dead friend. 
And the long-lost buried years. 



FAITH, HOPE, AND LOVE. 



INSCRIBED TO MISS NORA ELDRIDGE ON HER WEDDING-DAY. 

No gems that are gleaming and glowing I bring, 
No glittering gold from the deep of the mine, 

'T is only a song of the heart I would sing ; 
'T is only heart-flowers I lay on your shrine. 

Yet soft is their fragrance, and pure as the snow 
The white lily petals of Faith that unfold ; 

And bright as the morning's first passionate glow 
Hope's roses, arrayed in their crimson and gold. 

Still fairer and fresher and sweeter by far, 

Dew-beaded with gems from the heavens above, 

Their leaflets more precious than all others are, 
The blue, bending bells of the flower of Love. 

All these I would bring, in their beauty and bloom, 
Undimmed by a breath of the world in its pride ; 

Fresh-gathered, and fragrant with fairy perfume. 
Entwining the hearts of the bridegroom and bride. 
284 



FAITH, HOPE, AND LOVE. 285 

You turn from a life that is precious, but past. 
To enter the dawn of a lovelier day, 

Where naught but the rosiest shadows are cast, 
To soften the sunlight that falls on your way. 

You hold in your trembling and womanly clasp 
The honor of one who is loyal and leal ; 

The hand that you lay in his passionate grasp 
You give to his keeping for woe or for weal. 

Then turn not away when the storm shall arise, 
When your pearl-tinted sky with a cloud is o'er- 
cast ; 

But banish the gathering tears from your eyes. 
Stand brave in your womanhood, true to the last. 

Bind the lilies of Faith to your beautiful brow ; 

Let the roses of Hope ever bloom in your breast ; 
Keep the blossoms of Love sweetly fragrant as now. 

Till the God of your fathers shall call you to rest. 



BRIDAL OFFERING 

TO MISS BETTIE ELDRIDGE, 
On her Wedding-day. 



Before you speak the sacred vovr 

That binds you as a wife, 
Turn once again the pages of 

Your happy, maiden life : 
Have you no tearful glance to fling 

Back through your father's door — 
The dear old home from which you turn 

For ever, evermore ? 



Is there no thought unspoken now 
That you may wish revealed, 

When silence on your rosy lips 
The bridal vow has sealed ? 

No withered rose you still may hold. 
Too dear to throw away ; 
286 



BRIDAL OFFERING. 287 

No letters that you tear in shreds 
Or sadly burn to-day ? 

No pictured face that yet may thrill 

Your bosom with regret ? 
No broken dream you still m^ay try 

All vainly to forget ? 
Ah ! well I read your answer in 

The half-indignant start ; 
No other hand has ever stirred 

The love-chords in your heart. 

I see it in the vivid blush 

That rises to your cheek 
When even any stranger tongue 

His name may chance to speak. 
The look of perfect, deep content 

That lives within your eyes, 
Was never born of buried hopes, 

Nor any broken ties. 

The love you fondly, freely give 

Retains no secret part ; 
The girlish hand you pledge to-day 

Bears all your woman's heart. 



288 BRIDAL OFFERING. 

And he holds dearer than his life 
The fair girl at his side ; 

His every hope he gives into 
The keeping of his bride. 

God keep you both in faithfulness 

Too sweet for any tears, 
Too perfect for unhappiness 

Throughout the coming years. 
May woman's purest confidence 

Grow strong about his life, 
And manhood's deepest tenderness 

Still crown you as his \vife. 



A LITTLE RAY OVER THE WINDOW. 



A little ray over the window ; 

Thank God, that the night-time has passed, 
And the day with its glorious beauty 

Is crown ill g the whole world at last. 

I stand at the vine-covered lattice, 

And throw the green blinds open wide, 

Looking out on the sun-tinted beauty 
Flooding in on the morning tide. 

Low over the hillside and valley 

Is waving a curtain of mist, 
And surely the clouds to the eastward 

The rosiest angels have kissed. 

The dewdrops in beautiful clusters 
Lie thick on the emerald leaves ; 

And white, waxen roses are dropping 
Their pure petals down from the eaves. 
289 



290 A LITTLE RAY OVER THE WINDOW. 

A breath of soft perfume comes floating, 
And gently drifts over my face ; 

The spirits of peace and of beauty 
Are thrilling with rapture the place. 

I turn and look back to the shadows 
That fell through the silence of night, 

Counting slowly the wearisome hours 
That tired my soul in their flight. 

The dreams that came over my spirit 
And beaded my lashes v/ith tears, 

The memories sacred and holy 
Of other and happier years ; 

The unspoken, passionate longing — 
Of sleepless and bitter regret — 

For one whom I ever remember, 
One heart, I can never forget. 

Sometimes when the terrible darkness 
Drifts down to the earth like a pall. 

And silence is lying so heavy 

In chamber, and door-way, and hall, 



A LITTLE RAY OVER THE WINDOW. 29 1 

The thought of my husband comes thrilling 
Through being, and bosom, and brain, 

Till being and bosom are shaken 
And broken with quivering pain. 

To know that I never shall see him. 

Nor wait for his coming again ; 
To dream of his old loving kisses. 

And know that my dreaming is vain ! 

To whisper his name to the darkness. 
Baptizing the silence with tears ; 

Through the lens of my terrible sorrow, 
The hours seem desolate years. 

Through the window of faith, oh ! my Father, 
Send down to my spirit the light, 

And strengthen my soul to remember 
That earth is a region of night ; 

That only in heaven the shadows 

Shall tremble forever away. 
And weary hearts drink in the beauty 

Of endless and glorious day. 



WIDOWED. 



I have left you, oh ! my darling, 

To your deep and quiet rest ; 
The flowers sweetly breathing out 

Their beauty on your breast. 
With your long and curly lashes 

Sweeping down your marble cheek, 
And the seal of utter silence 

On the lips that cannot speak. 

Now the pure, pale hands are folded, 

For their time for work is past, 
And the tired feet are resting 

From their weary walk at last. 
They have left me in the shadow 

That we feel but cannot see ; 
For the mist of death has shrouded 

All your higher life from me. 

When your steps grew faint and feeble. 

And your brow so strangely pale, 
292 



WIDOWED. 293 

Wearing even then the draping 

Of its soft immortal vail, 
Then I shrank away in terror 

From the bitter painful truth, 
Shutting out its presence even 

With the faith of early youth. 

When your lips would sometimes whisper 

Over mine a breath of fear, 
That the change I so much dreaded 

For you, darling, was so near, 
Oh ! I could not quite believe you. 

And I put aside your fears, — 
Bravely met your anxious glances 

With a smile and not with tears. 

But my hope was slowly dying 

In my bosom day by day, 
When I saw the painful quiver 

Of your lips and heard you say : 
*^ The end is so much nearer, 

O my darling ! than you think ; 
I can see the rolling river 

With the flowers on its brink ; 



294 WIDOWED. 

'* I can almost see the boatman 

Plying now between the shores ; 
I can hear the wimpling water 

And the plashing of the oars. 
I must leave our little children, — 

Leave you, O my precious wife ! 
I can feel the slow, sad breaking 

Of the dearest ties of life." 



But I fondly thought to hold you 

With a love so strong and true 
That the links it cast about you 

Even Fate could not undo ; — 
Thought to keep your sun from setting 

Even when the twilight fell, 
And the night of death was stealing 

On your pathway like a spell. 

Though the tide of life was failing. 
Failing in your bosom fast, 

Yet a hope and strength upheld me, 
Madly human to the last. 

And a sudden chilling darkness 
Wrapped the sad September day, 



WIDOWED. 295 

When the warm and crimson fountain 
Of your being ceased to play. 

I have stood to-day, my darling, 

Where the low green branches wave 
Above the marble sentinel 

That watches by your grave. 
And where the boughs were bending down 

Above your sad, sweet rest, 
Some little birds had builded 

Such a dainty, pretty nest. 

The shining sun of summer 

Came and crowned your sleeping clay 
Like a heavenly benediction 

As I sadly turned away ; 
Your name upon the marble 

In the golden glory shone, 
Writing on my heart the record 

That I faced the world alone 



TWO LOVES. 



Forgive me, O my darling ! 

If the love has seemed to pale 
That I once so fondly pledged you 

At the low white altar rail. 
I look upon my finger 

Wearing still the wedding-ring 
That you fondly placed upon it 

When my love had crowned you king. 

And sweeping back the shadows 

Of the intervening years, 
I bow my head upon it 

In an agony of tears. 
God has lifted you, my dear one, 

Far above my warm embrace ; 
I have seen the light of heaven 

Resting on your peaceful face ; 

I have watched the mortal chalice 
Break within your failing hands ; 
2q6 



TWO LOVES. 297 

Knelt beside you when your spirit 

Glided from its mortal bands ; 
Felt the faint, despairing kisses 

Of your swiftly waning life ; 
And caught the last sweet whisper 

Of those precious words : **' My wife." 

I have held our little children 

To my lonely, aching breast. 
Praying God to give us shelter — 

Just a quiet place of rest. 
But the world is cold and careless 

Of the living and the dead ; 
Though I bore my burden bravely, 

I could scarcely earn our bread. 

My slender form grew faint, dear, 

Beneath the toil and pain ; 
My cheeks were pallid with the tears 

That fell like bitter rain. 
The way grew dark and darker still 

Before my weary feet, 
Until my bowed and broken heart 

Had almost ceased to beat. 



298 TWO LOVES. 

And then there fell across my path 

A trembling ray of light, 
A tiny rift within the cloud, 

A single star of night. 
And one, who like myself had borne 

In tears the chastening cross, 
Whose heart in desolation mourned 

Its greatest earthly loss, 

Came to me when my very soul 

Was faint and longed for rest. 
And gave my weary, aching head 

The shelter of his breast. 
He read within his lonely heart 

The grief that clouded mine ; 
We both had wept an idol lost 

Before a darkened shrine. 



And while the early loves of youth 
Still brightly glowed the same. 

Beside them rose within each heart 
Another fresher flame ; 

Less warm perchance, perhaps less bright. 
But steady, strong, and true 



TWO LOVES. 299 



As ever woman gave to man, 
Or man for woman knew. 



The seasons of this fleeting life 

In turn their tributes bring, 
And autumn flowers often bloom 

As fair as those of spring ; 
Sometimes their very lateness gives 

Their bloom a softer glow, 
Like beams of golden sunset on 

A closing day of snow. 

If, from your fair, celestial home, 

My dear one, you can see 
Another walk beside me in 

The path you walked with me ; 
If I should lean my weary head 

On his protecting breast, 
I know it cannot trouble, dear, 

Your sweet, eternal rest. 



Your place, my darling, still is yours. 
And still I wear your ring. 



300 TWO LOVES. 

And hold your image in my heart 

A sacred, holy thing ; 
And he, who would so tenderly 

Lift up my broken life, 
Is faithful still in memory 

To his immortal wife. 



;:X\ 







